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hat DEBBIE did when LIZ and EDDIE walked in

JANUARY 254

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VOL. 57, NO. 1

NOW

PLAYING

For fuller reviews, see Photoplay for the
months indicated. For full reviews this month,
see contents page, (a — adult f — -family)

JANUARY, 1960

PHOTOPLAY

FAVORITE OF AMERICA'S MOVIEGOERS FOR OVER FORTY YEARS

BIG FISHERMAN, THE— Buena Vista; Pana-
vision. Technicolor: A dazzling spectacle il-
luminates the beginnings of Christianity, with
Howard Keel as St. Peter. John Saxon, Susan
Kohner provide the romance. (F) September

DEBBIE REYNOLDS

INGRID BERGMAN
ERROL FLYNN

EXCLUSIVE

20 What Did Debbie Feel When Liz and Eddie Walked In?

by Mary Culver

22 “I Will Always Love Roberto” by Brlanne Watson
36 Exit Laughing by Sara Hamilton

BUT NOT FOR ME — Paramount; VistaVision:
One joke — stage-producer Clark Gable’s reluc-
tance to admit his age — sparks a mild romantic
comedy. While Carroll Baker isn’t well-cast as
his eager, youthful new love, Lilli Palmer has
the charm the film needs. < F) November

DORIS DAY
TUESDAY WELD
ANNETTE FUNICELLO
AND PAUL ANKA

HOW GOOD IS YOUR PARTY LINE?

52 Getting Through to Him
54 Copy Tuesday

56 Cha-Cha — Annette and Paul Show You How

CAREER — Wallis, Paramount; VistaVision:
Authentic picture of show business, splendidly
acted by Anthony Franciosa and Dean Martin
as ambitious men: Shirley MacLaine, Carolyn
Jones and Joan Blackman as their unhappy
women. (A) December

FBI STORY, THE — Warners; Technicolor:
Saga of the federal agency provides gunfights
and explosions aplenty as agent James Stewart
faces national enemies in four decades. In be-
tween come tender sentiment and family love,
with Vera Miles as Jimmy’s wife. (F)

November

LAST ANGRY MAN, THE— Columbia: Excel-
lent, faithful version of the best-seller. Paul
Muni’s just right as the old doctor in a Brook-
lyn slum. So’s David Wayne as a producer who
wants to put Muni on TV. (F) December

MOUSE THAT ROARED, THE— Columbia ;
Eastman Color: Why would a tiny (imaginary)
European country declare war on the U.S.?
The answer’s full of fun. Peter Sellers juggles
three roles, one of them opposite Jean Seberg,
who’s a pretty American. ( F) December

ODDS AGAINST TOMORROW— U. A.: In this
skillfully-made but routinely-plotted thriller,
Harry Belafonte, Robert Ryan, Ed Begley lend
excitement to the story of a bank robbery bun-
gled through race prejudice. (A) December

DICK CLARK
PAT BOONE
ANNETTE AND PAUL
MARIO LANZA
JUDI MEREDITH
LENNON SISTERS
JOAN CRAWFORD
BOB EVANS
RICK NELSON
JANET LEiGH AND
TONY CURTIS

CHRISTMAS CONTEST

58 Last Chance: Win a Phone Call From Elvis, Rock, Kookie or Fabian

ARTICLES AND SPECIAL FEATURES

17 Shouts and Whispers of 1959 by Dick
24 Twas the Month Before Christmas

26 Anka’s Okay, but Annette, She’s in Love by Mike Funicello

30 The Man Who Destroyed Himself by Jae Lyle

32 With No One Special for Christmas by Nancy Anderson

40 The Lennons’ Miracle by Marcia Borie

44 Joan by Charlotte Dinter

46 If Only She Were Here by Bob Evans

48 What Makes a Nice Boy Change Like That? by Shari Sheeley
SO There Will Be No Divorce by Roberta Downs

YOUNG IDEAS

4 Readers Inc. 65 Answers to December’s Puzzle

12 Monthly Record by George 68 Becoming Attractions

81 Who Do You Want to Read About?

NEWS AND REVIEWS

2 Now Playing (Brief Reviews) 60 Go Out to a Movie

10 Hollywood for You by Skolsky 72 Casts of Current Pictures

82 Inside Stuff by Sara Hamilton

COVER PHOTO: Janet Leigh and Tony Curtis by John Engstead for Columbia

■" ■ •

PILLOW TALK — U-I; CinemaScope, Eastman
Color: Slick, bright, thoroughly winning com-
edy. The New York phone company gets two
subscribers (Doris Day, Rock Hudson) to-
gether by putting them on a party line. With
songs, Tony Randall, Thelma Ritter. (A)

November

EVELYN PAIN, Editor

NORMAN SIEGEL,

CLAIRE safran. Managing Editor
nancy erik son , Associate Editor
tobi feldstein. Assistant Editor
dick CLARK. Contributing Editor
jim hoffman. Contributing Editor

KENNETH CUNNINGHAM, Art Director

West Coast Editor

Pamela law. Fashion Editor
JUNE CLARK, Beauty Editor
Roger marshutz, Staff Photographer
JOAN clarke. Assistant Art Director
MARCIA borie, West Coast Contributor

SUMMER PLACE, A — Warners; Technicolor:
Sandra Dee and Troy Donahue make highly
appealing young lovers, battling their parents’
problems. Big emotional scenes and sex discus-
sions; handsome settings. (A) December

THEY CAME TO CORDURA— Columbia ;
CinemaScope, Eastman Color: Different sort of
film that happens to have a western setting, on
the Mexican- American border in 1916. When
the story’s tensions separate the men from the
boys, Gary Cooper sees Van Heflin as a brute.
Tab Hunter a careerist. Ignoring glamour,
Rita Hayworth’s great. (F) October

THIRD MAN ON THE MOUNTAIN— Buena
Vista; Technicolor: Exhilarating yarn about
mountain-climbing finds James MacArthur dar-
ing a Swiss peak never scaled before, with Janet
Munro to cheer him on. (F) December

Your February issue will be on sale at your newsstand on January 5th

Photoplay is Published Monthly by Macfadden Publications, Inc . , New fork, N. Y.

Executive, Advertising and Editorial Offices at 205 East 42nd Street, New York 17, N. Y. Editorial
branch office, 321 South Beverly Drive, Beverly Hills, Calif. Irving S. Manheimer, President; Lee
Andrews, Vice-President; S. N. Himmelman, Vice-President; Meyer Dworkin, Secretary and Treasurer.
Advertising offices also in Chicago and San Francisco.

Subscription Rates: $2.50 one year, $4.00 two years, $5.50 three years in U. S., its possessions and Canada.
$5.00 per year all other countries.

Change of Address: 6 weeks notice essential. When possible, please furnish stencil-impression address from a
recent issue. Address change can be made only if we have your old as well as your new address. Write to
Photoplay, Macfadden Publications, Inc., 205 East 42nd Street, New York 17, N. Y.

Manuscripts, Drawings and Photographs will be carefully considered but publisher cannot be responsible for
loss or damage. It is advisable to keep a duplicate copy for your records. Only material accompanied by stamped,
self-addressed envelopes or wilh sufficient return postage will be returned.

Foreign editions handled through Macfadden Publications International Corp., 205 East 42nd Street, New York
17, N. Y. Irving S. Manheimer, President; Douglas Lockhart, Vice-President.

Re-entered as Second Class matter May 10, 1946 at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March
3, 1879. Second-class postage paid at New York, N. Y., and other post offices. Authorized as Second Class
Mail P. O. Dept., Ottawa, Ont., Canada. Copyright 1959 by Macfadden Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.
Copyright under the Universal Copyright Convention and International Copyright Convention. Copyright reserved
under Pan American Copyright Convention. Todos derechos reservados segun la Convencion Panamericana de
Propiedad Literaria y Artistica. Title trademark registered in U. S. Patent Office. Printed in U.S.A. by Art Color
Printing Company. Member of True Story Women’s Group.

She had more weird ideas

two guys could keep
up with ...or the FBI
could stop!

"Seems like every time I
get in trouble, my buddy
gets arrested!"

"Of course, I love my wife,
but these women keep
turning up in my armsl"

‘‘I don't know whether
to believe my husband
or my own two eyes!"

COLUMBIA PICTURES presents

TONY CURTIS • DEAN MARTIN - JANET LEIGH

SfhorWaA Ikatqf&dyP

co-starring JAMES WHITMORE - JOHN MclNTIRE • BARBARA NICHOLS

Written and Produced by NORMAN KRASNA - — ‘ * GE°RGE ""

AN ANSARK-GEORGE SIDNEY PRODUCTION

Fall or jump?

As a matador. Bob Evans got oles from a fan. Now. she wants encores.

My brother and I recently saw the “Big I
Circus.” At the end of the picture, did
David Nelson reach for the rope and miss,
or did he miss on purpose? My brother
thinks he jumped to kill himself but I think
he reached for the rope and missed. Who’s
right?

Valerie Bramhall
Texarkana, Texas

If you'll recall, at the end of the picture ,
Hank ( Victor Mature ) shouted that it was
Tommy ( David Nelson) who killed Mama
( Adele Mara). Then Zach ( Gilbert Rol-
and) went after Tommy to the top of the
tent, and Tommy fell to his death. Looks
like you won. — Ed.

Bullfighter

Who played the bullfighter in "The Sun
Also Rises?” Will he appear in another
picture soon?

Yvonne Df, Velbiss
Anaheim. Calif.

Bob Evans was the magnificent bullfighter.
Pedro Romero. Bob will be seen— well,
rather than tell you here, why not turn to
page 46 and see for yourself. — Ed.

Look Alikes

Everyone thinks Lattie Moore looks like
Alan Ladd. He is from Kentucky and lie's
a very good singer and song writer.

Jimmie Moohi
Scottsville, ky.

Can you tell Alan Ladd from Lattie ?

Did He?

Did Van Heflin star in “Johnny Eager,”
"3:10 To Yuma” and on Broadway in “Phil-
adelphia Story?”

Viola Barboza
Plainville, Conn.

You've got ’em all! V an won an Academy
Award for Best Supporting Actor (1942)
for his role in “ Johnny Eager." — Ed.

A Good Mother

The picture of Debbie Reynolds and her
chubby, happy looking "dolls” on the No-
vember cover of Photoplay, was a joy to
behold. She must be a good mother or else
her babies couldn't look so happy.

Blanche Bonner
Denver, Col.

In “3:10 to Yuma": Van. Glenn.

More Look Alikes

My name is Mrs. Anna Seidenberg and
the picture is of my niece Bari Anne Crystal.
Couldn't she pass as a double for Annette?

She sure could ! — Ed.

Annette has a look-alike in Bari Anne.

. . . Here’s a double for you. All my friends
agree that Tony Tunino looks exactly like
Jimmy Darren. In case your interested,
Tony is eighteen years old.

Joanne Long
Albany, N.Y.

Jimmy Darren’s double is named. Tony.

Dear Rock Hudson

I have "One Desire,” to go to America to
see you, but my hope fell. “All That Heaven
Allows” me is to dream of you. I dreamed
that I waited for you at the “Bend of the
River.” Meanwhile, I heard the “Battle
Hymn” although "Any Way the Wind
Blows.” Later I heard you asked the “Iron
Man” and the others that “Has Anybody
Seen My Gal?” Nobody answered. A few
moments later, I saw your “Giant” figure
coming towards me. The minute I saw you,
I felt as if "This Earth Is Mine.” Oh! You’re
my “Magnificent Obsession.” You gave me
a little “Golden Blade” and although it’s
just a little thing, it’s “Something of Value”
to me. Then you said “A Farewell to Arms”
to me and you consoled me by saying that
we’ll “Never Say Goodbye.”

P.S. It’s wonderful if you can read this,
because it was “Written in the Wind.”

Lily Loorwanit
Bangkok, Thailand

In Person

Not long ago. while shopping in a depart-
ment store, I saw a big picture of my
favorite actor George Nader on the main
floor. Under the picture it said, “Come
Meet the Stars,” and it continued to say
that this particular day, George Nader
would appear in person. So up to the
second-floor I went and waited for him.

He answered many questions and auto-
graphed his picture for us. He was nice
enough to even pose for a picture with me
and spoke to my friend and I for a few
minutes. I think he’s one of the nicest and
friendliest stars that I have ever met.

Bette Davidson
Brooklyn, N.Y .

( Continued )

GARY GRANT ' TONY CURTIS

submerged with 5 Girls...no wonder
the s.s. SEA TIGER was called

c-smJOAN O’BRIENDINA MERRILL • GENE EVANS ...DICK WENT -^ARTHUR O'CONNELL

i, BLAKE EDWARDS • », STANLEY SHAPIRO - MAURICE RICHLIN - m* m ROBERT ARTHUR ■ a wm pwduciion • a »w«a mwi* m

C^Jboucfkht6 c9kc.

Kookie Quiz:

Man, like I’m minus 22. Like I really dig
Edd!

Jeanette Miller
Wichita, Kans.

. . . I scored minus ten but I don’t wear
hooded sweaters even though I think they’re
real neat and I don't wear short rain-
coats— I’d much rather carry an umbrella !

Ginny Rozaic
Downers Grove, 111.

. . . Just looking at Edd’s picture leaves
me “discombobulated” so I tried the quiz.
My score was — honestly — a cool 11!

Marly'ne Towns
Kingston, Ont.

. . . I don’t know' if I’m “Kookie” or not,
but I do know that I dig that wTay-out
cat with the crazy jive talk, the ever
active comb and the man-like wow smile,
Edd Byrnes.

Ginny Cangelo
Brooklyn, N.Y.

Edd ivants us to tell all you cats who
scored minus 10 in the quiz, that he
almost blew his jets when he read your
letters and to tell you he thinks you’re
all the “skizziest!” — Ed.

continued,

They’ve Got It Made

Normally I’m not one for writing fan
letters, hut after seeing “But Not for Me,”
I couldn’t resist taking pen-in-hand.

This is simply a perfect picture. The
casting is ideal. Clark Gable is superb,
likewise Carroll Baker and Lili Palmer is
sheer delight.

Give us more films as good as this one,
and the motion picture industry’s got it
made!

Mrs. 0. H. Hall
Norman, Okla.

Fabian

Of all the rock ’n’ roll singers there are,
Fabian beats them all by far.

He’s tops in looks as well as voice.

He's much nicer than the other hoys.

He belts out a song like no one can,

I hope he knows I’m his faithful fan.

He’s called “The Tiger” and I can see why,
To say he's not the “most” is a big fat lie.
Although he’s only reached sixteen.

He seems older when he’s seen.

I’ll be his fan til the day I die,

His personality is something money can’t
buy.

During every day and in every way,

Fabian’s the best, is what I say.

Louise Ewing
Tripoli, Libya

Love That Faculty

We think it would lie fun to have a
new faculty for our Jr. High School:
Principal — George Nader
Asst. Principal — Keith Larsen
Librarian — Dinah Shore
Math Teacher — Clint Walker
History Teacher — Edd Byrnes
English Teacher — Robert Horton
Music Teacher — Ricky Nelson

Patricia Eason
Abilene, Texas

Film Version

I’ve never enjoyed a comedy more than
I did “Auntie Marne” but I think a film
version of its sequel, Patrick Dennis’ new
novel “Around The World With Auntie
Marne” would be even funnier. Here’s an
all-star cast for it :

Auntie Marne — Rosalind Russell (of course)

Patrick Dennis — Brandon De Wilde

Basil Fitz Hugh — John Lund

Mr. Babcock — Fred Clark

Vera Charles — Coral Browne

Rosemary — Elaine Stewart

Ito — Yuki Shimoda

Elmore Burnside — Jack Carson

Pegeen — Pippa Scott

Daniel Camino

Lima, Peru

Where’s Paul?

I’m one of Paul Anka’s many fans and
! also president of one of his fan clubs.

All the members of our club are wonder-
;i ing when Paul will appear in your mag?

Kay Smith
Goldsboro, N.C.

| If you’ll hop over to page 26, you’ll find
Paul along with Annette Funicello. — Ed.

’ Quite A Guy

Pat Boone, to me, is quite a guy,

I And here are a few reasons why:

He sings a slow song from his soul,

And he’s extra good with rock ’n’ roll.

He seems to be nice in every way,

His friendliness is sure to stay.

Besides, his family is very charming.

And not to like him — is quite alarming!

Harry Johnson, Jr.
Peebles, Ohio

Bring It Back

I hope that wonderful picture, “Mar-
jorie Morningstar,” will be brought back
again. I thought all the stars in it were
just wonderful.

Evie Morino
Miami, Fla.

What Picture?

I can’t seem to remember the name of a
1959 movie which starred Joanne Wood-
ward and Yul Brynner. Could you help me
out? I’d certainly appreciate it.

Mrs. John Kovalsky
Mentor, Ohio

You Mean “The Sound and the Fury”? — Ed.

Thank You Photoplay

Last April, I wrote a letter about the fab-
ulous Kingston Trio and was lucky enough
to have it printed in your July issue. Be-
cause of that letter, I was able to meet and
talk with the Kingston Trio when they
played here in Austin in October.

Less than one hour after they arrived,
Dave Guard, the leader of the group, called
to thank me for the letters I had sent and
then asked me to be sure to come by and
see them. To say 1 was thrilled to the core,
would be putting it mildly! After all, it’s
not every girl who gets a live phone call
from Dave Guard. They were all so darn
nice to me. I still haven’t returned to the
ground yet — or washed my right hand,
which shook all of theirs. It was just about
the biggest thrill of my life.

Victory Van Dyck
Austin, Texas

Wonderful Person

I’ve been a fan of Deborah Kerr’s some
time now. I wrote several letters to Miss
Kerr and finally received an answer this
summer. Since then, I’ve received other
letters from her and they’ve all shown her
to be the warm, kind and wonderful person
I knew she’d be.

I wish to express my gratitude to Miss
Kerr — a really grand person.

Eleanor Cohen
Brooklyn, N.Y.

Where to Write

Please tell me where I could write Andy
Williams, a wonderful singer and a swell

guy-

Dottie
Holland, Pa.

Andy would love to receive your letter.
Send it to Cadence Records, 119 West 57th
Street, New York, N.Y. — Ed.

W rite to Readers Inc., Photoplay, 205 E. 42nd
St., New York 17, N. Y. We regret we cannot
answer or return unpublished letters. To start
fan clubs or write stars, contact their studios.

( Continued )

. and never so few were the moments left for love!

c9hc.

continued

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confidentially. . .

iiiiiiiiiuiiinitiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiifiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiifn

Anyone interested in
having me as their pen
pal? I am eighteen.
David Brown
Tech. Trades School
B.S.P. Co. Ltd.

Seria, Brunei,

Borneo

I’m interested in pictures of Bob Horton
of “Wagon Train” and Wayde Preston of
“Colt 45.” Anyone care to send me pictures
and articles on my two favorite heroes?
Will gladly exchange pictures.

Mrs. Robert Markley
R. R. 2
Early, Iowa

We would like to write to anyone who’s
interested in the Lennon Sisters and Law-
rence Welk and would gladly trade pictures
of them for those of other stars.

Jacque, Judy and Jere Allen
1088 Pemberton Lane
Billings, Mont.

Since we don't get American magazines
here in Indonesia, I’d like to receive old
Photoplays in exchange for pretty Indo-
nesian things.

Vic Wahjoetomo
Djl. Kurintji 15,
Malang, Djatim,
Indonesia

1 am interested in exchanging pictures
and clippings of other stars for those of
Yul Brynner. If you're interested, please
write me.

Emma Richards
Route 1

Rutherford, Tenn.

I am a young girl of
sixteen who would very
much like to ha\e a
pen pal from Holly-
wood who is interested
in movie stars.

Nadia Lashka
Royal Edward
Box 400
St. Agathe des
Monts, Que.

I would like very much to increase and
make my collection of pictures and articles,
on Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, as
complete as possible. Your help will he ap-
preciated. Write me soon. Proper settle-
ment will he made on goods received.

Mary Ann Opera
427 East 328th St.
Willowick, Ohio

Many thanks to Dolores Hart, Natalie
Wood, Janet Leigh. Debbie Reynolds, Sal
Mineo, John Saxon, James Darren, Tommy
Sands, Pat Wayne, Tony Curtis and all the
other stars who sent me their photos.

Pirkko Savonen
Oulu. Finland

I’m an eighteen year
old girl from way down
Hawaii way and would
love to correspond with
boys and girls between
the ages of seventeen
and nineteen.

Lucy Jacapin
P. O. Box 1007
Ewa, Oahu

Attention all readers of Photoplay mag-
azine. I am a young girl in my teens who is
just dying to get my hands on a copy of
Johnnie Ray’s recording of “Cry.” If any of
you readers have one you'd like to sell or
know where I could get one, please write
me. I'll pay at least 15.00 for it!

Diannf. Chinnes

Box 37

Hemingway, S. C.

My first and last wish
is to have an American
pen pal. I am nineteen
years old and my hob-
bies include films, rec-
ords and dancing.

George Vai.asiadis
Kurtulus,

Kavurme St. 42/5
Istanbul. Turkey

Since I collect picture postcards, I was
wondering if there are any readers who
would like to send me some.

Jeanie Eubanks
Mooneyham Trailer Ct.
Republic, Mo.

I have to give up my collection of pho-
tographs of famous movie stars. Does any-
one want to buy twenty-six photos? The
price is 50p plus 5 (e postage.

Anita Joyce Carter
570 Ocean Ave.
Brooklyn, N. Y.

Anyone want to trade or sell pix of Dale
Evans and Roy Rogers? Write me soon.

Alice Bennf.t
235 College Ave.
Richmond, lnd.

Want to join the only official fan club for
Paul Newman? Dues are $1.50 a year and
you receive two journals, bulletins, pen pals,
pictures of Paul and any other privileges
that may arise.

Bennett Tarleton, Pres.

761 South Confederate Ave.

Rock Hill, S. C.

Angela Cartwright of “The Danny
Thomas Show” has an active fan club go-
ing in Burlington. Anyone interested, write:

Pat Fine
336 McHenry St.
Burlington, Wis.

Starting a fan club for Mitzi Gaynor and
want members galore. You’ll receive an
8x10 autographed picture of Mitzi plus
journals. You can start this club rolling, if
you join now.

Jeanne Marie Schulz

164 Long Meadow Dr.

Rochester 21, N. Y.

I’ve just started a fan club for Dion and
the Belmonts. If you’re interested in join-
ing, write me:

Cheryl Skoneke
10 Alpine PL
Arlington, N. J.

I'm president of “Patti’s Partners,” one
of Patti Page’s many fan clubs. Dues are
$1.00 per year, and members receive a
membership card, button, wallet size pic
and 8x10 pics of Patti.

Rosemary Cahili.

119 East Main St.

Macedon, N. Y.

Anyone interested in joining the only fan
club for Johnny Mathis in Canada, write
me for details.

Derek Barnincham Jr.
634 Danforth Ave.
Toronto, Ontario,

Canada

Remember that "Bandstand” favorite
Kenny Rossi? Well, he’s making records
now and I'm helping him get a fan club to-
gether. There are no yearly dues, and Kenny
will send special things to all members. For
full info, write me as soon as possible:

Carol Ciaccia
2242 Stanwood St.
Philadelphia, Pa.

Need members for a fan club? Want a pen pal?
Like to exchange fads? Write: Confidentially,
Photoplay, 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N. Y.

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4 OUT OF 5 TOP MOVIE STARS USE LUSTRE-CREME SHAMPOO!

Everyone says Shirley’s kookie, but that isn’t how I spell it.

THAT'S
HOLLYWOOD
FOR YOU

BY SIDNEY SKOLSKY

Ever see a solid-gold Rock? No surprises for Dinah.

I think Shirley MacLaine is not
only a good performer but a
smart cookie. (I didn’t say kookie,
although she may pretend to he.)
Shirley handles herself well offscreen,
too. ... So if big names make money
pictures, how come “The Devil’s Dis-
ciple” with Burt Lancaster, Kirk
Douglas and Sir Laurence Olivier
did so small at the box office? . . .
Guess the only trick left for Alfred
Hitchcock is not to appear in one of
his pictures. What a mystery! What-

ever became of Hitchcock? . . . I’d
say Janet Leigh is the actress who has
made the most improvement. . . . Glad

Elaine Stewart has come out of hiding
and has made a movie. . . . MM is the
only actress who gets sewed into her
gown. . . . There are some people
who believe that Khrushchev came to
Hollywood to help publicize “Can
Can.” . . . Judy Holliday told me she
always orders ice cream the same
color as the dress she’s wearing —
“Then if I spill any, it won’t show.”

Joan O’Brien is a girl who hears
watching. After you see “Operation
Petticoat.” you’ll understand. ... I
P don’t believe any actor in Holly-
wood’s history had it as good, or had
as much power, as Frank Sinatra.

. . . My favorite Oscar is Rock Hud-
son. I’ll always remember him gold-
painted to resemble an Oscar at the
Press Photographers Ball a few years
back. . . . Robert Mitchum’s com-
ment after making a movie in Ire-
land: “It’s like a Hollywood set where
all the characters are played by Barry
Fitzgerald.”

I'd like Peter ( Craig Stevens ) Gunn
hot on the trail of Richard (David
Janssen I Diamond in a TV caper.
. . . Did you know that the “Perry
Mason” TV show is fixed, rigged?
Perry (Raymond Burr) won’t accept
a case unless he knows his proposed
client is innocent. ... I was amazed
to hear (and I don't amaze easy I
that Edd “Kookie” Brines doesn’t
collect a penny on all those combs
sold. Kookie, eh? . . . Mickey Rooney
doesn’t like to be caught tired. . . .
No matter how bad the dialogue is in
a movie, I prefer it to the dialogue of
the couple sitting behind me. ... 1
have a suspicion that Louis Jourdan
practices to keep his French accent.

. . . I’m a pushover for a good movie
about Hollywood. . . . What’s with
Gary Cooper in “They Came to Cor-
dura ”? He plays his part as if he’s
reading his lines from a teleprompter.

and without his glasses yet. . . .
Rick Nelson prefers a shower to a
hath, because he likes the beat of the I
water on him. . . . Van Johnson is the
biggest movie fan of all the movie I
stars. He’s apt to ask himself for an
autograph.

Dinah Shore knows what she’s do-
ing every minute; even when she ap- I
pears to he surprised. . . . Gardner i
(“Adventures in Paradise”) McKay
is an object lesson to all actors, in
coming on too soon with too much
publicity before being ready for the I
main event. ... A few girls have told
me that sex appeal has come to Charl-
ton Heston. . . . Joan Collins told me
that if you want to be thought a liar, I
always tell the truth.

I think May Britt showed too much
of her legs too long, and they became
unsexy. ... I can’t see anyone but ]
Simone Signoret winning the Oscar
for the best performance by an act-
ress. . . . Jim ( Matt Dillon) Arness
sleeps in a king-size bed and uses
every square foot of it at one time or
another during the night. ... I did
it! I’m about to finish this column
without mentioning Debbie, Eddie
and Liz. I’ve been trying to swear off.

. . . That’s Hollywood For You.

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By GEORGE

Vol. 1, No. 11

COMING UP BIG

Bobby Rydell: Scared for the first time.

TEEN TOWN

When word got around that your
own George had been elected mayor
of “Teen Town,” all the young stars
rallied to our nightly meetings.
(“Teen Town” is broadcast Mon-
day through Friday evenings, over
the ABC Radio Network — check
your local papers for times. I

Fabian came as my opening-night
guest and talked about how every
teen can he popular. Annette, Carol
Lynley, Paul Anka and Frankie
Avalon are just a few of the gang
who’s been on. Every night, we
play music, natch. We talk about
dating problems, careers, movies,
beauty secrets for the gals, fashion
previews of the latest fashions for
the fellows. I’ll be covering news
events of your favorite stars, too —
birthdays, engagements, weddings.

Jf you were lucky enough to see

Bobby Rydell when he toured in
Dick Clark’s Caravan of Stars this
fall, you know this singer’s going to
be around a long time. Fle’s got a
smash style all his own, fantastic
professional polish — and he’s seven-
teen years old !

Bobby and I talked backstage at
one of the rock ’n’ roll shows about
his dream come true: singing in the
big time! All through his younger
years, Bobby was training for his
show-biz success by practicing in
the family living room. He did wild
imitations of popular singers and
actors — Johnnie Ray, Red Skelton,
Jerry Lewis, Sammy Davis, Jr.

“I was scared the first time I ever
went out in front of an audience,”
Bobby admitted, “but soon as I saw
how nice the audience was, I made
up my mind I was going to relax
and have a ball. And that’s the way
it’s been ever since. I go out on
stage and I think of everyone in the
audience as being my friend.”

Two of Bobby’s records, “Kissin’
Time” and “We Got Love,” have hit
the best-seller charts. But Bobby
says, “I don’t believe in taking suc-
cess for granted. I practice all the
time. I take dancing and voice les-
sons. Also I practice with guitar
and drum.”

Bobby’s favorite singers are
Elvis, Frankie Avalon and Connie
Francis. He’s crazy about swimming
and he says pizza rates very high on
his favorite foods list. His favorite
dance? The chalypso — where one
foot does the Cha-Cha-Cha. and the
other foot does a Calypso!

December, 1959

Carol loses the beat.

BACHELOR
CORNER: man talk

T)lue-eyed Carl Dobkins Jr. (“My
Heart Is an Open Book”) is in
Uncle Sam’s army, and he’s asked
me to send his hi-yas and Christ-
mas greetings to everyone. . . . Sal
Mineo’s turned into quite a chef.
His specialty: Pizza bambinos (he’s
promised us the recipe). . . . Carol
Lynley is still carrying the torch
for Brandon De Wilde, although
that romance has had its shake-ups
on account of Carol’s uh-uh com-
ments about rock n’ roll. . . . “The
human brain is such a wonderful
thins,” Annette told us. “Starts
in the morning and doesn’t stop un-
til the very minute you’re called
upon in class!” ... Jo Ann Camp-
bell is on a campaign to defend flirt-
ing. “It’s just a way of meeting
somebody,” blue-eyed Jo Ann in-
sists. “You flirt with a smile or a
nod of the head or just take a look
of the eyes. What’s so terrible about
that?” Not a thing, honey.

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING IDEAS

rT'he trick to Christmas shopping is
finding something “just right”
for everyone on your list. A record
or a book is a great idea, and we’ve
gotten up this list of suggestions to
show you how easy it is to find the
one that’s perfect for mom, dad. sis,
brother, friend and steady. And
don’t be afraid to stray off the beat-
en track. A classical record, for in-
stance, can be a compliment.

Pop

Albums

For lovers: Sinatra

Dukes of Dixieland Vols. 7 and
8 (Audio-Fidelity)

The Five Pennies ( Dot )

I Dig Chicks Jonah Jones (Cap.)
Duke Ellington Jazz Party (Col.)
One More Time Count Basie
I Roulette )

Music From Peter Gunn (RCA)
I Want To Live Gerry Mulligan
(United Artists)

Classical Albums

For deep ones: Roberta

Come Dance With Me Frank Si-
natra (Capitol)

Like Young Secret Songs for
Young Lovers. Andre Previn and
David Rose (M-G-M)

A Date With Elvis (RCA)

Ella Fitzgerald Sings Rodgers
and Hart (Verve)

Belafonte At Carnegie ( RCA )
Exciting ConnieFraneis ( M-G-M )
Kingston Trio At Large (Cap.)
Ames Brothers Sing Famous
Hits Of Famous Quartets ( RCA I
Heavenly Johnny Mathis (Col.)
No One Cares Sinatra (Capitol)

Jazz Albums

For cool ones: Duke and Ella

No Sun In Venice Modern Jazz
Quartet (Atlantic)

But Not For Me Ahmad Jahmal
(Argo)

Miles Davis Plays Porgy And
Bess (^Columbia)

The Historic Broadcast Tschai-
kovsky’s Piano Concerto #1, Vladi-
mir Horowitz with Arturo Tosca-
nini and NBC Symphony (RCA)
The Rubinstein Story Arthur
Rubinstein plays Chopin’s Concerto
and Andante Spianto (RCA)
Beethoven: Symphony $:6 The
Pastoral Symphony, Pierre Mon-
teux and Vienna Symphony (RCA)
Prokofieff: Symphony #:5 Jean
Martinon and the Paris Conserva-
toire Orchestra (RCA)

Landowska, Wanda: Memorial
Edition (July 5, 1879-August 16,
1959). (RCA)

Shostakovich : Symphony 1

Jean Martinon and the London
Symphony Orchestra (RCA)
Brahms: Concerto #2 Arthur
Rubinstein with Josef Krips and the
RCA-Victor Symphony (RCA)
Stravinsky: The Fire Bird Ernest
Ansermet with L’Orchestre de la
Suisse Romande (London)
Rameau: Pieces for Harpsichord
in Concert (Vanguard)

Rossini: The Barber of Seville
Robert Merrill, Roberta Peters and
the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra
and Chorus conducted by Erich
Leinsdorf (RCA)

Original Sound Track
Albums

For movie fans: Jimmy and Ben

Anatomy of A Murder Duke Ell-
ington (RCA)

Pete Kelly’s Blues (Warner)

The Nun’s Story (Warner)

Some Like It Hot (United Artists)
Porgy and Bess ( Columbia )
Victory At Sea Vol. 1. Robert
Russell Bennett (RCA)

A Lincoln Portrait Carl Sand-
burg (Columbia)

The Thurber Album James Thur-
ber (Simon)

The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis

Max Shulman (Garden City)

Parents Keep Out Ogden Nash
( Little )

Act One Moss Hart ( Random )

The Works of Anne Frank Her

short stories, essays and her Diary.
(Doubleday)

The Art of Loving Erich Fromm
(Harper)

The Fireside Book Of Folk

Songs Margaret Bradford Boni.
editor (Simon)

So To Speak (guide to a better
voice). Von Hesse (Lippincott)

Exodus Leon LTris (Doubleday) p
Seen Any Good Movies Lately?
William K. Zinsser (Doubleday)

tEfje Jtlontf# jEecorb

continued

Marlene can be too frank.

Kirk’s proud.

Ava loves travel.

your monthly
HOROSCOPE

If your birthday falls between
Nov. 23rd and Dec. 22nd, you’re a
Sagittarius — just like: Kirk Douglas
( Dec. 9 ) , F rank Sinatra and Edward
G. Robinson ( Dec. 12), Lee Remick
(Dec. 14), Hope Lange (Nov. 28),
Kathy Grant and Jeff Hunter (Nov.
25), James MacArthur (Dec. 7).

You’re above petty squabbles, so
don’t let yourself get tangled up in
them. You have stick-to-it-iveness.
You’re a very frank person, some-
times too much so. You have a nat-
ural ability to attract others, but
this can lead to broken engagements,
so sidetrack unhappiness in love by
not letting yourself get carried away
by flattery. You like travel, hate
p high-pressure salesmanship, have
plenty of pride. Your lucky num-
ber’s an interesting one. It’s 3.
14

PUZZLES

YULESVILLE

ACROSS

1. Your Man Friday

5. " — You Don't Want My Lovin' "

6. "Mack the Knife's" pal
9. A bone (Latin)

10. Ex-baseball player (init.)

11. " Hearted Melody"

12. " Gonna Miss Me"

15. The Divine One (init.)

16. He walks on "Lonely Street"

DOWN

1. Our singer of the month (pictured)

2. He's "In the Mood" (init.)

3. See 6 across (init.)

4. "The Angels In"

7. That "Pillow Talk" man

8. He sings "We Got Love"

13. The Clovers' label

14. "Poor Little Fool" (init.)

Can You Guess This Star’s Name?

‘MOIL JDlUOSpuVlJ UdCld UUDJQ V/

fit!

Here’s Edd Byrnes’ musical
Christmas card just for you

Twas the night before Christmas and
all through the pad,

Not a hip cat was swinging and
that’s nowhere Dad.

The stove was hung up in that stock-
ing routine,

Like maybe the fat man would soon
make the scene.

The kids that fell by had just made
the street,

I was ready for Snoresville — Man was
l beat.

When there started a rumble that
came on real frantic,

So I opened the window to figure the
panic.

I saw a slick rod that was making
fat tracks,

Souped up by eight ponies all wear-
ing hat racks,

And a funny old geezer was (lipping
bis lid,

He told them to make it and man like
they did.

They were out of the chute making
time like a bat.

Turning the quarter in eight seconds
flat.

They parked by the smoke stack
in bunches and clusters,

And chubby slid down coming on
like gang busters.

His threads were from Cubesville
and I had to chuckle.

In front not in back was his Ivy
League buckle.

And the mop on his chin had a but-
ton down collar,

And with that red nose, Dad, He
looked like a bailer.

Like he was the squarest, the most
absolute.

But let’s face it. who cares, when he
left all that loot.

He laid the jazz on me
And peeled from the gig
Wailin’ have a cool Yule man,

Later — like dig.

Is it true . .
blondes
have more
fun?

Your hairdresser will tell you
a blonde’s best friend is

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for babies’ skin and yours than any other soap.

Here's the kind of
year it really was. 195
the year I learned about g

Connie Francis learned about
men — the hard way . . . the year
Dodie Stevens sighed while Fabian
burned . . . the year Duane Eddy wouldn't say
anything and Edd Byrnes said too much iSHr tl
year Dion and the' Belmonts got away
with larceny and Pat Boone ( Continued )

ICK CLARK

cupid sure
was stupid

CONNIE FRANCIS

CONNIE STEVENS

SHOUTS

and whispers of

has El been
forgotten ?

couldn't get away with anything . . . the
year Johnny Horton went around in
circles and Andy Williams was
left up in the air . . . the year Connie
Stevens found out who her friends
really were. ... In all, it was
a year that there was a
whole lot of shouting — and
whispering — going on. And
here ’ S ( Continued on page 62 )

DODIE STEVENS

too good -for
their own good!

FABIAN

ELVIS PRESLEY

ANDY WILLIAMS

KEELY SMITH

SAL MINEO

THE KINGSTON TRIO

FRANK SINATRA

PAT BOONE

girl

trouble ?

when

Suddenly , the room was still .

People turned to stare
after them. Debbie sat still and
straight. But everyone
at the party wondered—

what did Debbie feel

walked in

FOR THE FULL STORY, TURN TO PAGE 74

I will

always
love

Roberto 1

She was in Rome again, and from the moment
she’d gone down to the street to go to the
courthouse, it had been a nightmare. Since
early morning she’d heard the reporters
under her window, trying to scale
the walls to get to her, but she’d
thought she’d be able to slip out to
the street by a side exit, thought she
would be able to elude them. But
they were like hunting dogs. They easily
picked up her scent and surrounded her, trapping her
fifteen feet from the car. She stood at bay, her
heavy fur coat wrapped
around her, and was so
frightened she found
herself shaking. They would not
(Continued on page 77)

Ingrid Bergman and Roberto
Rossellini meeting again in Rome

by BRIANNE WATSON

as the

month before Christmas,

and all through Pat Boone’s
house, every creature was stirring,

but not Shirley’s spouse. “Oh, where is your daddy?” Mom sighed in dismay. “He knows we
start trimming our tree on this day.” Then Lindy — who’s four — -said that she knew just where: “He’s
off in the woods with Dan’l Boone — and a bear!” “Oh, don’t he so silly,” scoffed big sister Cherry. “But
maybe it’s truel” Debby said, looking merry. Mom tripped off to the kitchen and mincemeat and plums;
Baby Laury went with her, to pick up the crumbs. Later Mom brought in popcorn and all of the rest. “Now
let’s dress up the tree. We’ll make it the best.” “But it’s not even here yet!” they wailed, all forlorn. “It’ll
he here — just as sure as you’re born!” Then what to their wondering eyes should appear. Through the window
they’d painted with tiny reindeer? “Daddy!” they squealed as they pranced out to meet him. And Lindy was first
out the doorway to greet him. As she hugged him, she looked like a small cocker spaniel. “I told them you were
out fighting with old Uncle
Dan’l.” “Oh, what did he look
like?” they all asked in chorus.

“And what did he give you to
bring home here for us?” “His
eyes — how they twinkled! His
dimples — how merry! His
cheeks were like roses, his nose
like a cherry! He wore a coon-
skin cap and wrastled a bear,

And shot a big hawk right out
of the air. He said, ‘All I
own here’s the sky and the
land . . .’ And he bent
down and broke off

these pines — with one hand! ‘Take these, Cousin Pat, as a small gift from me. One'
look mighty fine as a Christmas tree.’ ” And it certainly did, that night by the
fire, As Pat read to, and sang with, his all-girl choir. And when they were
nestled all snug in their beds. Dreams of Santa and Dan’l got
blurred in their heads. And they heard both exclaim, as
they flew out of sight, “A merry Christmas you’ll
have — but for now — good night!”

RVICE

seven-year-old Mike Funicello says:

Anka’s okay

She’s so darn famous — it’s embarrassing.

Instead of taking me to see Santa, she kept trying stuff on, so l hid her shoes. She didn’t thinl. U was funny.

Yesterday, when I got home from school,
Annette was waiting at the bus-stop — to take
me to see Santa Claus, she said. We never did
get to see him, but I don’t care, I don’t believe in
him anyway. Not the one in the store — he’s just
an actor. The real one’s up in the North Pole,
that’s where we write him letters at school. He’s
busy up there, making stuff kids want.

Anyway, I knew when we got to the depart-
ment store, we probably wouldn’t have time to
see Santa, ’cause to get to where he is, you have
to walk past the dress department and I knew
that’s as far as we’d go! All Annette ever wants
is dresses. She used to hate them, because you
can’t climb trees in them, but now I bet she has
a closet-full. Me, I only have to (Continued)

but Annette, she’s...

After Paul came, I had
fun. Both of us kidded
Annette till / got sick
of it and made them
take me out to the park.

It was my pop, but she said it’d spoil my dinner.

change clothes when I get dirty, which
is all the time. But she never gets dirty,
and she’s always changing. And put-
ting goo on her face, and looking at
herself <in the mirror. It’s boring.

But this time I knew she didn’t
really want to buy anything. I pre-
tended like I didn’t know that she was
really waiting for Paul Anka. That’s
one of her boyfriends, the nice one —
even if he does like girls. He likes me,
too, because he’s got a brother around
my size in New ( Continued on page 81 )

7 promised not to tell her secret
if she didn’t tell Mom l had ice
cream. But we both told anyway.

At the park, they were terrible. They kept sneaking away by
themselves and laughing. 1 was mad. I had to run after them.

Instead of taking the four Lanza children straight to their

home at 56 Via Bruxelles as usual, Carlo Giannini, Mario Lanza’s chauffeur,

waited for them in front of the Merrymount School, then he drove

them to a nearby beach instead. This was a rare treat and it was

almost dark when they pulled up in front of the Lanza villa,

tired and happy. Pointing to the crowd around the ( Continued on page 71)

JUDI MEREDITH

Judi Meredith pressed her
forehead against the win-
dow of the plane and
looked down at the city of Port-
land below.

Christmas was still three weeks
away, but already she could see
red and green lights and the out-
line of Christmas wreaths and
trees. In five minutes, the plane
would land and she’d be back
home again. Christmas was such
a good time to be home . . .
There’d be all the familiar sights
and sounds and smells, the chimes
in the church tower ringing
“Silent Night,” the wonderful,
sharp odor of the pine needles
from the fresh-cut Christmas tree
in the living room, and, down-
town, the happy-sounding jangle
of Salvation Army bells rung by
hopeful Santa Clauses on all the
street corners.

Christmas was always such a
happy time. Last year, for in-
stance , . . But she didn’t want to
think about last year. Barry Coe
had come home with her then,
and it had been perfect . . . But,
she told herself, this year will be,
too. I’ll make sure it is.

A little boy across the aisle
started bouncing up and down at
that moment as the plane landed,
his red-tasseled cap bobbing.
“We’re here! We’re here!” he
shouted happily, and Judi smiled.
She was still smiling as she went
down the ramp ( Continued )

Only a year had passed, yet everything was so different. As judi
drove home with her father, even the town seemed to have changed.

“You surprised us again!” Mom said, hugging her. But then Randa came
running. “Judi,” she shouted, “who came with you? Did you come alone?”

or Christmas

witk no one special jo r Christmas

She went shopping, not knowing what to buy Dad, wishing she had a man to ask, “ You think he’d really like this?’

and saw her father waving his hand excitedly at her.

“Judi, Judi, dear,” he called. He started running toward
her, his head bare, his overcoat flapping, and then Judi
began running, too, to meet him.

And then they were hugging each other, both talking
at once, and it was so good — so good to be home.

“You look fine!” they both said at once and then they

laughed, and her father said, “Come on, I can’t wait to
get you home. Mother and Randa have no idea you’re
coming. It’ll be a real surprise.”

As they walked to the car, he told her it almost hadn’t
been a surprise. “You know, they were going to go Christ-
mas shopping this afternoon, and I didn’t know what to
do. Finally, I told them a man was coming to overhaul

Randa kept talking about “ growing up,” but Judi shook her head. “ It’s not how you think it'll be” she wanted to say.

the furnace and someone had to be
there to let him in. They’ll be so glad
to see you, though, they’ll forget all
about wondering why the man never
came.”

He helped her into the car, and
she had the ( Continued on page 78)

She’d always had fun , Judi thought. She’d never been lonely at Christmas.

He lived and died — just as
he pleased. Errol Flynn,
the last of the swashbuck-
lers, marks the end of an era
epitomized by the late Jack
Barrymore, Errol’s friend, and
by so many other colorful in-
dividuals. Errol was the Don
Juan of romance, of high ad-
venture, of complete charm.

He was one of the handsomest
men ever to hit Hollywood. His
brown hair, blue eyes, patrician
profile, the handsomest legs ever
seen on a male, his more than
six-feet of height, his beautiful
accent, soft voice, quiet manner,
magnetic charm, made him a
target for women. And for
hecklers and tourists anxious to
prove themselves heroes by pick-
ing on the great Flynn. He knew
this. He once said to an actor,
a quiet young man of breeding,
“No, Bobby, I won’t join you
all at Mocambo tonight. You
see, wherever I go, trouble fol-
lows and I don’t want you to
share this problem with me.”

A fewr nights later, at this
same nightclub, an out-of-town
heckler — for no reason at all —
heaved an egg at Flynn, who
was quietly minding his own
business, and once again the
headlines blared.

His adventures, before he
ever hit Hollywood as a young
man, surpassed ( Continued )

HIS PRIVATE LOVES

First marriage to French star Lili Damita lasted seven stormy years.

Women and law suits filled his life. He met Nora Eddington at court.

They were separated but, wept wife Pat Wymore, “I still love him.”

HIS MOVIE LOVES

1. Women envied Bette
Davis in “ Elizabeth and
Essex ,” yet none of ErroVs
leading ladies ever became
an off -the- screen romance.

2. But he always got
the girl — naturally! In
“San Antonio ,” he
wooed Alexis Smith.

He lived and died— just as he pleased ... believing:

anything he ever did on the screen.
Born in Hobart, Tasmania, the is-
land south of Australia, he very
early began trading with the natives
of New Guinea, traveling up rivers
on a boat. There was something
very amusing about the way he ac-
quired this boat, and something very
comical about his deals, but the de-
tails, as he told them to me, escape
me now. Anyway, they’ll all be re-
vealed in his forthcoming book, “My
Wicked, Wicked Life.”

His rare good looks brought ad-
vice to become an actor so, as a
British subject, he took off for Eng-
land and the stage. His first role
was that of a free-talking, slangv
American. He shuddered when he
told me about this. Other roles
followed and at last he tried Holly-
wood. His first part was that of a
corpse lying f Continued on page 66 )

During one of their marriage's
more peaceful moments, Errol,
in his “Robin Hood ” beard,
lunched with Lili Darnita at
W arners ’ studio. Both had
same problem — extravagance.

When Errol invited me {in
straw hat ) to Jamaica with
him and Nora, we lived on his
yacht, shot the rapids in a raft.
“The public has always ex-
pected me to be a playboy,” he’d
laughed, “and a decent chap
never lets his public down.”

3. He won fame in 1933, in
“ Captain Blood co-starring
with Olivia de Havilland.

4. He was on top by the
time he made “ Cry Wolf”
with Barbara Stanwyck.

5. Sivashbucklmg was his spe-
cialty. He duelled for Maureen
O'Hara in “Against All Flags.”

6. Ann Sheridan was his girl
in “Edge of Darkness.” He
liked his later films best.

Yfter the first death, there is no other”

In 1936, he was Hollywood's
new sensation, proudly point-
ing out his name in Photoplay
to director Frank Borzage, Mar-
garet Lindsay, Anita Louise.

He liked young girls — but they
meant trouble. Betty Hansen,
17, accused him of rape.

Pat could forgive any escapade,
hoped Errol would come back to
her and their daughter , Amelia.

Whatever his quarrels with their mothers,
he loved Rory, Deirdre and his only son, Sean .

“De-De?” baby Annie asked, looking from Dianne to one of
the little angels — one for each Lennon child — on the wall shelf.

It was four Sundays before Christmas. To the
Lennon family of Venice, California, this meant
the beginning of holiday preparations. It was the first
Sunday of Advent — signifying the coming of the Christ
Child — and on that day and the successive Sundays
before Christmas, the Lennons would add to their Yule
decorations. The Christ Child, all the children knew,
was not to appear in the manger for several more weeks,
hut it was the Lennons’ custom to put the tiny Babe,
wrapped in swaddling clothes, into a little wooden crib
filled with straw on that first Sunday. Then Mr. and
Mrs. Lennon would set up a square of velvet cloth on the
piano top, across the room from the manger, placing on
it replicas of the richly adorned wise men, a procession
of donkeys laden with gifts, and a stately camel. The
children would take turns moving them forward every
day until the first week in January, when the entire pro-
cession would arrive on the mantel piece and become
part of the Nativity scene. ( Continued )

Trying to guess Mom and Dad’s Christmas secrets are, left to
right: Billy, Danny, Janet, Peggy, Kathy, Dianne, Mimi, Joey.

It was a miracle — the Lennons never doubted it;

( Continued )

While the preparation was going
on, the littlest Lennon, Anne Mado-
lin, crawled into the room and Sis
propped her in her own little rock-
ing chair so she could watch. This
was Annie’s very first Christmas, for
she’d been born last January 24th.
Although she could not realize what
was going on, her big brown eyes
kept getting wider and wider as she
watched her brothers and sisters pre-
paring for this something wonder-
ful. On the day before Christmas,
Annie would be exactly eleven
months old, and already the closets
were full of packages that would be
under the tree waiting for her.
Christmas time at the Lennons is an
important time. Along with the
gaiety, the bright decorations, the
delicious dinner and the welcoming
of friends and relatives, there is an
attitude that goes much deeper.
Because of its religious significance,
it is a time of reverence, unselfish
thoughts and prayers.

As Sis Lennon says, “When you
live something every day of your
life, it’s a ( Continued on page 70)

by MARCIA BORIE

)ut could they make anyone else understand?

There’s a man in Beverly Hills,
California — a talented amateur
who paints portraits as a hobby.
The man has a friend, and the
friend asked one day if the
painter would do a portrait of
Joan Crawford, “as a surprise for

her,” he added. So the painter
took home with him a series of

photos of Joan, and that night he
studied them, and pored over
old newspaper clippings and his
own memories and then the next
night he (Continued on page 67)

IF ONLY
SHE WERE
HERE

[Hverytime I hear her name, I

die a little inside — like the

other evening, at the open-
ing of “The Best of Everything.”
1 was leaving the theater, and for
a moment I was taken by surprise
as a group of girls broke through
the rope and rushed towards me
with their pads and pencils. As 1
was being pulled away by an ush-
er, I heard a voice say softly,
“Please, Bob, won’t you sign just
one more.” I turned around and
saw a young girl. I took the auto-
graph book she held out to me and
started to write when she inter-
rupted and shyly said, “Won’t you
please put ‘To Patty, with love?’ ”
As she said this, I felt myself
tense up. I was glad I had my face
hidden, looking down at the book.
But I could hardly write, I was
gripping f Continued on page 57)

by BOB EVANS

as told to GEORGE CHRISTY

by SHARI SHEELEY (who knows)

what makes
a nice boy
change
like that ?

My sister and I unloaded our paraphernalia: beach towels, lotion for

getting brown, straw hats for keeping away freckles, two bathing caps, a stack
of movie magazines, our portable radio, a bag of sandwiches and a thermos
jug. We shook out our towels, anchored them in mounds of warm sand, tuned
to our favorite deejay, divided up the magazines and stretched out to
relax. It was a perfect summer day — just the right amount of cool breeze and,
overhead, a clear, balmy sky. Suddenly, a whirling white ball came flying
at us, spraying sand in the sandwiches, overturning the cups of milk and finally
coming to a rest in my lap. Mary Jo and I jumped up. With miles of empty sand,
you’d think they could keep the ball in their own ( Continued on page 75 )

JANET LEIGH and TONY CURTIS:

there will
be no divorce

It was ugly enough to be a lie, but how many
people would think that. The morning gossip
column plainly stated: Janet Leigh and Tony
Curtis quarreled at a party last night. It be-
gan when Janet, her lips tight with anger.

walked across the crowded room to where her
husband sat beside a dark-haired, pretty girl.
She said something to the girl and then
turned on her heel and walked out. Those
who saw it say there ( Continued on page 64)

DORIS DAY: “Boys want their
girls to be natural. Do you remem-
ber what Rock Hudson said to me in
‘Pillow Talk’? ‘You give me a real
warm feeling, like a potbellied stove
on a frosty morning.’ That’s what a
fellow likes — warmth. So here are
some tips that’ll help you get through
to him, when he calls and asks:

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO OUT
TO DINNER?' Boys like a girl who
wears a small hat or veil and gloves ;
lets them open doors; waits for the
headwaiter to show her to a table,
then follows ahead of her date (but
lets her date lead if there’s no wait-
er) ; knows the waiter will hold her
chair and help with her coat (and
knows only men check their coats) ;
keeps her gloves and handbag on her
lap or an empty chair; knows the
difference between “dinner” (fixed
price for all courses) and “a la
carte” (each course is separate, so it
costs more) ; doesn’t order the most
expensive dish but takes her price
cue from their suggestions; tells her
date her order so he can tell the

GETTING THROUGH
TO HIM

waiter; is adventurous enough to
try foreign foods; never fixes her
hair or makeup at the table.

“HOW ABOUT MEETING SOME
OF MY FRIENDS?” Boys like a
girl who isn’t jealous of his friends;
won t moan if the subject gets on
cars; doesn’t try to falsely impress;
avoids quarreling, or acting posses-
sive or too affectionate; never gos-
sips or makes fun of others; won’t
repeat things he’s told her; can
aame six popular records and what
subjects top a boy’s best-seller list;
doesn’t brag about her other dates.

“WOULD YOU COME AND MEET
MY PARENTS?” Boys like a girl
who knows they don’t ask every girl
to meet their parents, so they must
like her a lot; remembers to bring
candy if she’s invited for dinner
(and offers to help with the dishes) ;
doesn’t gush, talk too much or
smoke; is respectful of their opin-
ions; stands when she is introduced
to them; is interested when mother
shows her prize antique chair ; won’t
embarrass them by holding hands;
doesn’t giggle, or tell tales out of
school; or dress “too fancy.”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING CHRIST-
MAS DAY?” A boy likes you if he

wants to share that day with you, so
show you like him by inviting him
to your house. To give or not to give
a gift is the big question. The an-
swer is have an inexpensive one
ready under the tree in case he
brings you something. Boys like
subscriptions to sports and news
magazines ; bulky Shetland mufflers ;
records; bright-colored socks that
you’ve knitted yourself; something
for his car; cuff-links; anything he’s
ever mentioned to you.

“CAN YOU GO TO THE CHRIST-
MAS FORMAL?” Boys like a girl
who sounds friendly on the phone
and makes him feel glad he called;
is smart enough to tell him the color
of her dress so his flowers will please
(if not a bracelet corsage, always
wears his flowers either on the left
shoulder with stems pointing down,
or pinned to waist) ; wears a simple
dress that doesn’t have all “those
fussy frills and bows”; doesn’t put
on grown-up airs or worry all the
time about her hair; smells pretty
but “doesn’t reek”; doesn’t ask him
to store her make-up in his pocket;
will sit out a fast dance if he can’t
do it; doesn’t tell her girlfriends
everything; shows she appreciates
all the money he’s spent.

Party fashions: Just a short while
back, Tuesday tried to be sophisti-
cated. Now she realizes her best style
is casual. Here she wears a party
favorite: a black cashmere sweater
with white wool skirt. (“It’s right for
almost any kind of date.”) Other
Tuesday combinations: velvet top
with chiffon skirt. Her fashion donts :
shock colors (“/ used to mix a white
dress with red belt, black shoes”) and
too-full skirts {“Make you hippy”).

' v- -

COPY

When Tuesday Weld came to Hollywood two years ago,
she found herself no longer a model, but she didn’t feel
like a movie star either. To her first big party she wore
so much make-up, she was afraid to blink an eye. (“Have
you ever tried not to move your face for six hours?”)
She loved exotic lipstick and used to “mix her own.”
Once she counted and found she had 72 shades. Since,
she’s learned to apply make-up so it looks natural. Her
greatest compliment: when someone told her how nice she
looked without make-up. She was wearing it! Tuesday
says she has no beauty secrets but does have a beauty
routine. She shampoos her hair often; scrubs her face
with a complexion brush bought in the five-and-ten ;
brushes her hair 100 strokes a day and sets her curls with
spray set. “Experiment,” she says, “with your hair and
don’t be afraid of a rinse. It washes right out.” She re-
cently tried a lavender blond. The shade elicited shrieks
from the studio, lasted only two days. For a party, her
advice is to dress and to look as natural as you can.
Her jewelry is simple and she prefers perfume in “just a
hint,” but she does splurge on a frosted nailpolish or iri-
descent eyeshadow. “It makes you feel different.” Try it.

Tuesday’s Party Make-Up Tips:

1. Tuesday keeps eyebrows natural,
darkens with mascara-dabbed brush.

2. For a party, she applies to top lid a
thin band of green shadow, then draws
a fine line along lashes with brown
eyeliner ; extends it a breath past eye.

3. Tuesday uses rouge with caution.
(“It helps, if you look too pale.”)

4. For a clean lip line, she outlines
mouth with a lip pencil , adds lipstick.

3 Party Hairdos: Left, Tuesday curls hair in front, winds a chignon in back.
Middle, she sweeps hair back, catches it with false braid, lets hair fall in
ponytail. Right, a center part and tight pageboy gives a Victorian look.

CHA-
CHA

Annette and Paul
show you how

GIRL’S PART

First Half

1,3

START

1. Step to right side with right foot.

2. Step forward with left foot, accenting.

3. Step in place with right foot.

4. (or Cha-Cha) Step to left side with left foot and
bring right foot next to left, weight on right.

Second Half

1. Step to left side with left foot.

2. Step back with right foot, accenting.

3. Step in place with left foot.

4. (or Cha-Cha) Step to right side with right foot
and bring left foot next to right, weight on left.

MAN’S PART

First Half

START

1. Step to left side with left foot.

2. Step back with right foot, accent-
ing that step.

3. Step in place with left foot.

4. (or Cha-Cha) Step to right side
with right foot and bring left foot
next to right, weight on left.

Second Half

1. Step to right side with right foot.

2. Step forward with left foot, ac-
centing.

3. Step in place with right foot.

4. (or Cha-Cha) Step to left side
with left foot and bring right foot
next to left, weight on right.

So you’ll blossom on the dance floor
instead of against the wall, here’s a
new, easy way to do the basic Cha-Cha
(reprinted from Arthur Murray’s
“How To Be a Good Dancer”). Read
both sets of steps before you start
practicing your own part. Start with
slow music and count out loud:
1-2-3, Cha-Cha . . . 1-2-3, Cha-Cha.

BOB EVANS

Continued from page 46

1 the pencil so hard. I once knew another
| Patty, and she’s still part of me. I’ve
B never forgotten her — because I loved her.
M It all goes back to when I was seventeen,
U when my lung had collapsed, and I almost
B died. I convalesced in Florida, and by the
m time I came back to New York, it was
U summer. Although my lung was better, I
m was still very weak. I remember sitting out
B in the park, by the Hudson River, and
B thinking about what had happened. Some-
| times I thought I’d never get well, never
B get any place. Because of my illness, my
M acting career came to an abrupt ending.

B One day, as I sat there, I noticed a young
S girl sitting alone on a nearby bench. I
j= smiled at her. When she smiled back, I
M said hello. I told her my name, and she
B said her name was Patricia, but everyone
M called her Patty. She wanted to know
| what I was doing, sitting along the river.

B “I like sitting by the river and wonder-
g ing what life has in store for me.”

B “I daydream, too, I guess,” she said, her
g voice was soft and melodious.

B I asked her if she sang.

B “No,” she said. “But I want to learn to
3 play the piano.”

S “Well, why don’t you?” I asked.

B “Because . . . well, it’s not that easy.”
B “Why?” I asked. “My father plays and
g he’s taught me. It’s really not hard.”

B “It’s not that. My dad says it would be
B a waste of money!” she said hesitatingly,
g We talked for a couple of hours. She
S told me she’d never known her mother,
g who had died when she was born; and that
g she was an only child. Her father had
B raised her. She was used to being alone —
g she didn’t make friends easily,
g After that, we used to meet almost every
g day that summer, and we talked about
g everything. I used to tell her what acting
g on radio was like, and what a world of
g make-believe it was. Then, one day, she
3 told me why she wasn’t taking piano
g lessons. Her dad couldn’t afford a piano,
g and I told her, never mind, she could learn
= to play on ours.

g One afternoon, I brought her home for
g her first lesson — she didn’t do too badly,
g After that, we spent at least one hour a
g day practicing. Then, one morning, she
g called me to say she couldn’t make the les-
g son; her father was sick with a cold. The
g rest of my day was ruined, and then it hit
B me: Could it be that I was falling in love?

g r I ''HAT autumn, we went to football
g X games and rooted for Columbia U.

(which was my dad’s alma mater) .
g They were the coldest autumn months in
g the history of the weather bureau. I re-
g member Patty would bundle up in a heavy
g coat, and I’d wear my muffler and heavy
g leather jacket — and we’d eat hot dogs and
g popcorn and root for “our team.” I’ll never
g forget those days. We had great times. It’s
g funny, but the only way you can really
g have a good time, is to be with the right
g person. It doesn’t matter what you do.
S Everything went fine. Then, one day, my
= mother asked, “Are you getting serious
g about Patty?” My dad didn’t say anything,
g but continued reading his book. I knew
g he wanted me to go to college. But he
g didn’t bring it up, not even when I bought
g Patty a second-hand piano later and he
g knew how serious I was.
g I had some money saved from my dee jay
g job in Florida, so I splurged and surprised
g Patty for her birthday. Sometimes we
g used to practice in her apartment after
g that, and some nights she’d fix something
g for us to eat — hamburgers and baked
g beans, meat loaf or fried chicken — while

her father and I talked until it was ready.

The following summer, I gave her a
bracelet for her birthday. “Just think,”
Patty said, “by next June I’ll have known
you almost two whole years!” I leaned
over and kissed her and said, “Patty, I
love you.”

Patty had really brought me out of my-
self. Before I met her, I used to be scared
of being myself with people, but with her,

I wasn’t. From the time I was a kid, I was
lonely and kind of shy. I’d nearly died
with pneumonia, and I wasn’t allowed out
of our apartment for weeks. I used to
watch the other kids from my window,
playing hockey or football or softball, and
I’d pretend I was out there playing with
them. Of course, it didn’t work very well.
I’ve never been very good at fooling my-
self. I couldn’t fool myself in high school,
either. The kids all thought I was moody.

I wasn’t a joiner, because being a radio
actor gave me little time after school to
make friends. Things had gone on like
that until I met Patty.

AS months passed, our love became
stronger and our thoughts more
serious. It was just two weeks before
Christmas, when Patty’s dad phoned me. I’d
gone shopping to buy Patty a string of
pearls she’d wanted for Christmas. I’d
already bought her a record album of
our favorite songs and a stuffed elephant
she’d seen in a window and loved.

I’d just walked into the house when the
telephone rang. It was Patty’s dad. His
voice was so low, it sounded muffled.
“Bob,” he said, and I couldn’t hear the
rest of it. I had to ask him to say it
again. “Bob ... I don’t know how to tell
you. Patty — Patty’s been in an accident.

I’m at the hospital now, but they won’t
let me near her . . .”

I was stunned. I couldn’t seem to find
my voice. Finally, I said hoarsely, “But
what’s the matter? I spoke to her today
during my lunch hour. Everything was
all right then!”

“She was with her girlfriend. The two
of them went out to look for a Christmas
gift for you. A car and . . . and . . .”

I gripped the phone hard. “Where are
you?” I asked.

He gave me the name of the hospital in
mid-Manhattan, and I ran out and hailed
the first taxi I saw.

By the time I got to the hospital, Patty
had died. Her father sat in the waiting
room, all by himself, and his eyes were
red from crying. I sat down next to him.

I couldn’t move.

Later, I called my folks but I couldn’t
believe what I was telling them. How
could Patty — I’d spoken to her at noon —
suddenly be dead? How could she? I
felt I wanted to cry, but couldn’t. I don’t
think I’ve ever ci'ied since.

I got home that night, but I don’t re-
member much about it. I think a doctor
drove us back to New York. I kept telling
myself, I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I know
I will. We’ll speak on the phone and she’ll
say, “Bob, I bought the prettiest dress for
the Christmas holidays, but don’t ask
me any questions about it because I want
it to be a surprise!”

But I didn’t talk to her tomorrow ... or
the next day.

They buried her, four days later, in a
crowded hilltop cemetery. It was snowing.
The snow made a white blanket on the
metal coffin. I left before they lowered it.

I’ve been told, by my parents and close
friends, that time heals all wounds. Maybe
it does. I don’t play games with myself, I
know I’ve yet to find this so. Hard work,
Hollywood parties, premieres — none of this
helps. All I know is, I’d give it all up for p
someone like Patty. The End

bob’s in 20th’s “the best of everything.”

YOUR LAST CHANCE

win a

ENTER TODAY—

youfve only got till December 20th to win

hristmas

from your favorite star

Just fill in last line. Send in as many
coupons as you like.

Paste on a postcard and mail to:

Win A Five-Minute Phone Call
P.C. Box 1872, Grand Central Station
New York 17, New York

It's like a dream, too good to be.

To think would ever call me.

But if it should happen, through Photoplay,

I can tell you now just what I'd say:

I am:

( a 9 • '

My name is: . My phone number:

I live at-

Here’s what to say if your phone rings and he says:

HI, lfM ELVIS You couldn’t blame
any girl for being speechless at the
sound of those words so, just in case,
practice making your voice sound warm
and friendly. You’ll want El to know
you’re glad he called. Remember, he’s
been away in Germany, and the things
he’s missed most are the everyday
things you probably take for granted.

"Tell him about them. Then start him
talking by asking about his plans when

HI, I’M ROCK If Rock seems a little
withdrawn when he first gets on the
phone with you, it’s ’cause he’s a little
shy with people till they’ve proved them-
selves. But if you’re open, natural and
friendly, he’ll like you from the start.
In that case, watch out! Rock’s a great
tease and practical joker. He’s serious
about his new singing career, but also
a little embarrassed by it. So don’t
mention it. Don’t bring up jewelry

he gets home. El’s started to keep a
diary, so why not tell him the kind of
things you write in yours? And if
you’re planning to travel, ask him for
some tips — fellows like to be asked for
advice. El will have lots to say, too,
about his new German guitar, football,
movies, cars, clothes and Teddy bears.
Don’t ask him about the girls he’s dated
in Germany — boys don’t like to be
asked about their other girlfriends.

either, because he’s superstitious about
it, never wears any and doesn’t like too
much of it on girls. Instead, study up on
sailing, his main hobby, and talk about
that. Other things to talk about are
amusement parks (his favorite place for
a date with a girl he really likes ) , gar-
dening (he raises grapes) , “Pillow Talk”
(it’s his favorite picture), the w?rld and
your place in it (he’s become quite a
serious guy, is fascinated by philosophy ) .

HI, I’M FABIAN Fabian doesn’t
like girls who are too forward, so be
natural and modest when he calls you.
Fabe likes to be sure a girl likes him
just for himself, and he likes to take
the initiative with a girl so he can feel
he’s made the conquest — and not vice
versa. He loves food, but don’t say too
much about it; he’s on a diet. He hates
gossip and talking about other people,
so turn the conversation to sports, in-

stead. You’ll have to bring up the sub-
ject, ’cause though he loves sports, es-
pecially football, Fabe won’t talk about
it unless he’s sure the girl is really in-
terested. He loves dancing, too, so tell
him about any new steps your gang is do-
ing or about the new record with a great
beat for dancing. Ask about the new
house he bought for his folks and tell
him about your school. Also be sure to
see his first picture, “Hound Dog Man.”

HI, I’M KOOKIE Edd’s girl has to
have a sense of humor, so show you
have one by telling him about something
funny that happened to you. Like thank-
ing your aunt for the wrong Christmas
present, and how you got out of it. In
person, Edd’s not quite as glib as the
car jockey he plays in “77 Sunset
Strip,” but he’ll yak away happily if
you ask about sports cars, swimming,
water skiing, gymnastics or records.

Now that he’s spending so much time
on trains and planes, getting to and
from personal appearances, Edd’s doing
a lot of reading. Be ready with a good
book you can talk to him about. Our
tip is to choose something offbeat —
that’s Edd’s taste in books, and also in
places to go and things to do on a date.

See if you can suggest something un-
usual. Watch him on ABC-TV’s “77 P
Sunset Strip” to get some ideas.

On The Bench united artists

This movie’s trying to scare you — and it does. The scene

is Australia, in 1964. The third world war, a quickie, has
killed off the rest of the world with its bombs or their fall-
out. Now, the poisoned air is moving closer each day to
the last people left alive on earth. For his first straight
dramatic role, as a guilt-ridden scientist, Fred Astaire may
pick up an Oscar to go with all those Emmys he won last
year. He doesn’t sing a note or dance a step. How could he
— with the world in such a pickle? Gregory Peck, as a sub-
marine commander, takes us for eerie periscopic view of un-
inhabited cities. It’s a relief to get back to Australia for a
look at Ava Gardner (left, top, with Fred and Greg). The
story’s almost too real, and its finish will leave you stunned.
But don’t just sit there! The whole purpose of the movie
is to make you get up and do something before we all wind
up in the same fix. family

Operation P etticoat u-i, eastman color

The only thing better than one Cary Grant is two of him.
So here’s Cary with the fellow who did such a hilarious
imitation of him in “Some Like It Hot,” Tony Curtis. Cary’s
boss of a submarine during a plain old-fashioned war like
the 1939-1945 one, and he has more trouble fighting off
Tony, a slick operator and scrounger extraordinary, than
the Japanese. But Tony doesn’t destroy Cary’s morale
single-handed. He has some help from a submarine load of
stranded nurses, including Dina Merrill, who’s blond and
poised (left, below, with Tony and Cary), and Joan O’Brien,
who’s brunette and giddy. The pink submarine alone is
worth the price of the popcorn — if you didn’t see it, you
wouldn’t believe it. family

Hound-Dog Man cinemascope, de luxe color

They haven’t spared a thing to make Fabian feel comfort-
able in his first movie. It’s an easygoing, country-style story
about the ol’ southern hills, and Fabe looks handsome as a
lad filled with hero-worship and jealousy. His idol is Stuart
Whitman, who’s a mighty handy man with a fishing rod, a
gun and a pack of hounds. Carol Lynley’s the girl who
thinks she can get the hound-dog man to settle down. It’s
Dodie Stevens who has poor Fabian worried — but she’s only
teasing. The songs these two sing have a modern beat, but
it doesn’t clash too much with the fiddle music and square
dancing. Real good fun. family

I. c. goldsmith;

GERMAN DIALOGUE. TITLES IN ENCLISH

Aren’t We Wonderful

The Germans are asking — and answering — the question
in that title, poking fun at their own recent history as they
do it. Hansjorg Felmy and Robert Graf portray a pair of
typical Germans from 1913 to the present, with the epi-
sodes in their lives interrupted by a vaudeville team who toss

MOVIES continued

Lil Abner: Julie and Peter.

in comments and songs. This bitter,
sarcastic movie treats the Nazis less
rough than movie-makers in another
country might have done. But it’s
good to see that the Germans are now
able to laugh at themselves. adult

f pi Abner paramount;

"L< VISTAVISION, TEC HN1COLOR

The gang from Dogpatch, having
made their crazy, unwashed way
through a comic strip and a Broad-
way musical, are more fun than ever
in this big, bouncy movie, done with
lots of style and color. Along with
the weird-looking characters, there
are some of the best-looking girls and
boys you’ve ever seen, including
Julie Newmar and Peter Palmer. The
songs are good, but the dance num-
bers are really special! family

1001 Arabian ISights

It’s Mr. Magoo — what more do we
have to say? The details are that
he’s in Bagdad, with Jim Backus as
his voice and Kathryn Grant and
Dwayne Hickman doing the talking
for a pair of sweethearts. There’s a
lot of talking going on, but it doesn’t
matter too much. After all, like we
said, it’s Mr. Magoo, bumbling his
near-sighted way straight to your
funny-bone. family

The Best of Everything 20™ ;

CINEMASCOPE, DE LUXE COLOR

Producer Jerry Wald’s moved Pey-
ton Place to Madison Avenue, and

if you liked the first picture, you’ll
feel ditto about this slick adaptation
of Rona Jaffe’s best-selling novel
about career girls and the no-good-
niks they fall in love with. Joan
Crawford’s so good she makes you
wish they’d given her more to do.
Hope Lange plays it cool in a ro-
mance with hard-drinker Stephen
Boyd and sparkly Diane Baker steals
the picture in a romance with Bob
Evans. Suzy Parker looks pretty, but
she needs help from some fancy
camera-work as she flips for Louis
Jourdan. It’s all set in a publishing
office the elegant likes of which no-
body on our staff has ever seen, adult

—SO— WARNERS

Jack Webb, who produced, di-
rected and starred in this movie —
the strange title is the way newspaper
men sign off their stories — started
out with a fine idea. He wanted to
make a realistic newspaper picture,
and the people he bosses around in
his managing-editor role are solid,
believable types, especially David
Nelson. But it looks as though the
gags about Jack’s “Dragnet” style —
“Just the facts, ma’am” — have made
him kind of self-conscious. In this
one Jack has all the players knock-
ing themselves out trying to be witty.

FAMILY

The Miracle warmers ;tech-

NIRAMA, TECHNICOLOR

Don’t confuse this picture with the
one Anna Magnani made a few years
back. They have the same title, and
both have a religious theme. But the
costumes and settings of early 19th-

“ Best Hope, Suzy and Diane.

century Spain give this big movie a
mighty romantic and adventurous air.
Carroll Baker has a role actresses
dream of. First, she’s a devout young
postulant; then a girl in love; a fiery
gypsy; a cynical courtesan. Adoring
men simply litter her path: soldier
Roger Moore, gypsy Vittorio Gass-
man, matador Gustavo Rojo, noble-
man Dennis King. Carroll’s a nice,
intelligent sort of actress — but we
had the feeling that the part simply
cried out for a dazzling old-style
glamour queen. family

Happy Anniversary u.a.

David Niven can never be too bad,
but this isn’t one of his best. A stagey
farce, it’s as funny as you could want
when David’s ranting and raving
against that one-eyed monster — TV.
But when he is remembering the good
times he and Mitzi Gaynor had before
they were married, twelve years and
two children ago — well, things kind
of lose their bounce. adult

The House of the Seven Hawks

M-C-M

Real Dutch backgrounds make all
the mysterious goings-on extra inter-
esting, and Robert Taylor obviously
enjoys his work as a tough American
adventurer on the prowl for lost Nazi
loot. If the villains, a sinister fat man
and his gang, look familiar, it’s prob-
ably ’cause you’ve caught the Bogart
picture, “The Maltese Falcon,” on
the late show. family

“Miracle” : Carroll, Vittorio.

fil

DICK CLARK

Continued from page 18

what the talk was really all about.

Lots of it, of course, was about music,
and maybe that explains why “Yakity Yak”
by The Coasters was the novelty record of
the year. The title of the song comeback of
the year has to go to “The Three Bells,” as
recorded by The Browns. This was a
strong record a few years back, when in-
troduced by Les Compagnons de la Chan-
son, but it never really reached the top till
’59, and it has now joined that growing
club of Gold Records. Other top songs of
the year were “Personality” and “Stagger
Lee,” both by Lloyd Price, which goes
to prove that being a seventh son really
is lucky.

Around the “Bandstand,” everybody
was yakking about the way the girls
seemed to be moving into the male sphere
by wearing boyish styled shirts in the
“sloppy Joe” style, hanging loosely out-
side skirts, shorts or capris. While the
ladies were becoming a bit casual, the
fellows moved in the other direction, with
blazers cropping up all over the place. For
a while there, we were back in the 30’s,
with clubs seals and school emblems on
the jacket breast pockets.

And then there was a whole lot of
shouting and whispering going on about the
people who make the music. For instance:

WHISPER— They said I was an im-
poster: Maybe you didn’t hear that one,
because it never got much further than
my own office. It started because this was
the busiest, most exciting year in all the
thirty I’ve known. For me, 1959 was the
year I moved into a home of my own . . .
made my first movie, “Because They’re
Young” . . . was on “This Is Your life” . . .
added a new TV show, “World of Talent.”

Well, after I’d been out in Hollywood a
couple of weeks, working on the picture,
I headed for a personal appearance at the
Michigan State Fair. (Editor’s note: He
broke all attendance records.) I was up on
the platform, waiting to go on, when a
nice-looking, elderly gentleman stepped up
beside me. He’d been watching “American
Bandstand” for a few days before the
fair, so he’d know just what this fellow
Dick Clark did. But what he didn’t know,
was that Tony Mammarella had been sub-
bing for me on the show. So, when I was
introduced to him as Dick Clark, he did
a fast double-take. “Why, you don’t look
anything like you do on TV,” he said.

This fractured me; I couldn’t wait to get
back to Philadephia and tell Tony I’d
practically been accused of being an im-
poster. For about a week after that, the
gang at the office would look from me to
Tony and back again, and then burst out
laughing. “That’s all right, pal,” Tony told
me. “I’ll be glad to help you make a come-
back!”

SHOUT— Fabian Fumes: When I got
back from the coast and heard the talk
about the feud Fabian was supposed to be
staging with his old pal and manager, Bob
Marcucci, I shrugged it off. Any time I’d
seen them together, they seemed to be
read good buddies. But when people kept
telling me about how peeved Fabe was at
the way Bob “bossed” him around and
wouldn’t even let him go out on dates, I
put a call through to him to double check.

As I’d suspected, it just wasn’t so. What
some people seem to forget is that Fabe is
still only sixteen. When he’s at home, his
folks keep an eye on him. When he’s on
the road, Bob’s like his “older brother.”
“He’s teaching me to make my own de-

cisions,” Fabe told me, “and to fight for
what I think is right.” What about the
dating, I asked. “Of course he lets me
date,” Fabe said. “Sometimes, he even lets
me take his car.”

WHISPER-Dodie Sighs: This one’s
true, and the reason is Dodie Stevens’
first real crush. The fellow who has Dodie’s
heart tied up in knots, like a pair of pink
shoelaces, is my good friend Fabian. Trou-
ble is that, while Fabe can date, Dodie,
who’ll be fourteen in February, still can’t.

Along with her first crush, Dodie got
her first kiss this year — but not from
Fabe. It happened while Dodie was on
tour in Australia. She’d been watching TV
in the lobby of Sydney’s Rex Hotel along
with sixteen-year-old Dash Croft, who
plays drums with The Champs. Dash
asked if he could walk Dodie and her
older sister, Elaine, home — to the door of
their suite, that is. Dodie agreed. Then, as
Dodie turned to say goodnight, Dash sud-
denly leaned over and kissed her. Dodie
blushed a deep purple and then, not
knowing what to say, rushed into her
room. The next morning, when she saw
Dash at rehearsal, Dodie blushed again,
but she didn’t seem too angry.

Dodie wasn’t the only girl in Hollywood
sighing because she was too young. When
Sal Mineo began limiting his dating to
post-teens, there were an awful lot of long
faces around. They brightened up, though,
when it turned out Sal was only trying to
prove he was old enough and mature
enough to play the lead in “The Gene
Krupa Story.”

SHOUT— Dion and the Belmonts get
away with larceny: Dion won’t tell me
the name of the hotel or even the town
where it happened, just in case he and the
boys ever have to play there again. All
he’ll say is that it was someplace in the
midwest, in a hotel where he and the boys
spotted an elevator operator being slow
and rude to an elderly guest. When the
operator’s back was turned, Dion and the
boys took over. They scooted into the
elevator car, pressed the button to close
the door and then started zooming up and
down. The floor dial swooped up to six,
down to two, up again to eight. Then the
boys took the car up to the top floor, set
the elevator on “automatic,” and ducked
out. When the elevator reached the lobby,
it was empty. “It’s haunted!” the operator
gasped. But ever since the day Dion and
the Belmonts stole that elevator, service
in that hotel has been the greatest.

WHISPER-Has Elvis been forgotten?

Well, let’s see who’s been treading in his
footsteps. Fabian, Frankie Avalon, Sal
Mineo and Paul Anka all took a fling at
movies this year — and wasn’t it El’s first
film that really clinched his spot in the
fans’ hearts? Bobby Darin was riding along
high on the top of the charts, and winning
tributes from such stars as Bing Crosby,
Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin for his
way with the words on “Mack the Knife.”
The only nay came from CBS radio, who
banned the song, saying its lyrics promoted
JD. Huh?

Andy Williams and Tony Bennett tried
the TV road to the top, and their two
shows wex-e probably the two biggest hits
of the warm weather months. Johnny
Horton, who looks like a baseball player
and who had himself a hit with “The
Battle of New Orleans,” started out right
at the same Shreveport, La. radio station
where Elvis (and Tommy Sands, too) first
made himself heard. Johnny, though, was
pretty much going around in circles this
year. He has his own bait (fish, not date)
factory and when he was on “Bandstand,”
all he’d talk to me about was the new lure
he’d invented, a thingamajig that flirts with

the fish by doing a 360° whirl underwater.
Another newcomer, Jackie Wilson, hit
with “You Better Know It” and found suc-
cess can be a problem. When he went on
the road to meet his fans, talk spread that
his marriage was in trouble. Jackie solved
that one — and kept himself from being
lonely, too — by having Frieda and the
three kids go along on every trip after
that.

And where was Elvis while all this was
going on? Physically, he was in Gennany,
of coui’se. But his pictures were re-re-
leased at the local movie houses and he
kept his place on the top-ten lists with a
steady flow of singles and albums. And he
really walked away with all the honors in
all the pop music polls I read, including
our own at “Bandstand.”

SHOUT— Connie Francis learns about
men: This was the year Connie Francis
stopped being the only girl in my life.
Suddenly, along came Dodie Stevens,
Annette, Anita Bryant, Kathy Linden,
Connie Stevens and Keely Smith (in the
comeback of the year). For a while there,
I thought the girls might actually top the
boys in the singing-honors department,
but that didn’t happen. Still, with what I
learned about girls this year, all I can say
is you never know what’ll happen next
year.

For Connie, it was a great year. She
wowed ’em over in England, her records
clicked wherever they have phonographs.
So you can’t blame her if, at the deejay
convention in Miami, she was walking on
air. What brought her down to earth was
a sti-ange man who sidled up to her, as she
was waiting for an elevator, and pinched
her — hard. Connie forgot about the elevator
and took to the stairs. But by the time she
arrived for her interview upstairs, she was
fighting back the tears. “Men!” she ex-
ploded. “What’s wrong with them?” Guess
she was pretty exasperated, but Dave
Somerville of The Diamonds, who’s one of
the lucky fellows Connie’s been dating,
tells me it didn’t take her too long to get
over it.

WHISPER— Andy’s up in the air: This

is my pet story of the year. Andy Williams,
who’s often too good for his own good, is
the kind of a softie with whom friends,
planning a trip out of town, park their
dogs. He takes such good care of the
pooches that his friends wouldn’t think of
boarding them in kennels. Andy’s greatest
experience as a px-ofessional dog-sitter
came when Joan Crawford wanted to take
her two dogs with her to the coast. When
Joan found out that the particular airline
she was taking didn’t allow dogs, she left
them with her maid. “Call Andy,” Joan
told her. So Andy came to the rescue,
taking the next flight on another airline
and delivering the dogs to Joan at the oth-
er end. “I was planning to go to the coast
anyway,” Andy insists. That’s probably
true, but, still, Andy made the greatest
sacrifice of them all. To keep the dogs
happy while airborne, he donated a couple
of hats from his famous collection. The
dogs chewed happily from coast to coast.

SHOUT— Connie Stevens finds out
who her friends really are: How do you

recognize a friend? Well, at a masquerade
party, like the one Connie gave, it isn’t
always easy. But it’s fun. Connie, herself,
dressed as a cello, in honor of her dad’s
profession, but since she loves being femi-
nine, it was the giddiest, frilliest cello you
ever saw. Nick Adams and his wife came
as twin babies, which was their way of
announcing their own happy news. “I had
a hard time recognizing some people,”
Connie told me, “but I guess my real
friends are the ones who stayed to help
me clean up.” That includes singer Gary

Clarke, who's been Connie’s steadiest date
for the past two years.

And in case you’ve been wondering,
Connie tells me she’s not the mysterious
“friend” on Edd Byrnes’ new record. Won-
der who that gal is?

Edd, who feels he may have done too
much talking already about his rumored
engagement to Asa Maynor — both to Asa
and the press — won’t say another word on
either subject. Edd did tell me, though,
of a fan who waited perched on the fenders
of his car for five hours, waiting for him
to return to where he’d parked. When she
asked him for an autograph, Edd gave her
one. And when she asked him for a kiss,
Edd obliged again. “I’ll never wash my
cheek again,” she screamed. “But I hope she
has,” Edd laughed. “It’s been a dusty year.”

Incidentally, cleaning up is the easiest
thing in the world at the hootenanies the
Kingston Trio give aboard Nick Reynolds’
houseboat. Everything goes over the side.

And speaking of friends, Phil Everly is
one. Phil, who likes to scoot out to Brook-
lyn on his Vespa to split spaghetti dinners
with Lou Giordano, is also the fellow who
coached Lou and then put up the money
for the demo of Lou’s record, “Don’t You
Know.”

WHISPER— Things go wrong for Pat
Boone: When Pat got out to Hollywood
and fourod one of his daughters had the
measles, he was worried. But he didn’t
take it as an omen. After all, another
daughter’d had the measles when they
were out there last year. But what Pat
didn’t know was that that was only the be-
ginning. Next came a broken toe while film-
ing “Journey to the Center of the Earth”;
a few odd burns when he helped fight a
fire that broke out on the lot; and then a
tangle between easygoing Pat and an ac-
tress who saved her best scenes for off-
camera. Guess he couldn’t help wondering
if his first screen kiss was worth it, but
Pat stayed calm through it all, which is
the way he is. If one more thing had gone
wrong, though, Pat might have wanted to
take some advice from Johnny Mathis.
“When things get too much,” says Johnny,
“I hop in the car and drive to the edge of
town. Then I park the car,” the former
track star explains, “and just run and run.”

SHOUT-Why doesn’t Duane Eddy
speak up? Some of the fans have been
getting the impression that Duane Eddy’s
high-hatting them. It happens when they
try to stop Duane coming out of a theater
to talk to him. Trouble is, Duane’s just
about the shyest guy in the business. It
isn’t that he doesn’t want to have a gab-
session with his fans, it’s just that he finds
it hard to speak up. Some of his big hits
this year have been giving Duane more
confidence, though, so look for a thaw.
And if you’re one of the people who’s been
wondering why Duane sometimes doesn’t
sing along with his records, the answer’s
the same — he’s still too shy. Maybe Duane
ought to practice with one of the “sing
along” records that won so many fans for
Mitch Miller this year. One of those fans
even offered to buy Mitch’s beard. Mitch
said he was willing to sell, but the price
is $15,000. Any more offers?

So, it’s goodbye to 1959 and a loud hello
to 1960. I can only hope that for all of us
it’s a year of peace, happiness and good
health. Let’s do our best to make it that
way. — DICK

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STAR CANDIDS YOU’LL TREASURE

5. Alan Ladd
11. Elizabeth Taylor
15. Frank Sinatra

18. Rory Calhoun

19. Peter Lawford
25. Dale Evans
34. Roy Rogers

5 1 . Doris Day
56. Perry Como
74. John Wayne
84. Janet Leigh
92. Guy Madison
105. Vic Damone

109. Dean Martin

110. Jerry Lewis
121. Tony Curtis
128. Debbie Reynolds
136. Rock Hudson

139. Debra Paget

140. Dale Robertson

141. Marilyn Monroe
145. Marlon Brando

147. Tab Hunter

148. Robert Wagner
175. Charlton Heston
187. Jeff Richards
194. Audrey Hepburn
198. Gale Storm

202. George Nader
207. Eddie Fisher
213. James Dean
215. Kim Novak
219. Natalie Wood

221. Joan Collins

222. Jayne Mansfield

223. Sal Mineo
225. Elvis Presley

227. Tony Perkins

228. Clint Walker

229. Pat Boone

230. Paul Newman

231. Don Murray
233. Pat Wayne
235. Anita Ekberg

240. Patti Page

241. Lawrence Welk

245. Hugh O'Brian

246. Jim Arness

249. John Saxon

250. Dean Stockwell

252. Warren Berlinger

253. James MacArthur

254. Nick Adams

255. John Kerr

256. Harry Belafonte

258. Luana Patten

259. Dennis Hopper

260. Tom Tryon

261. Tommy Sands

262. Will Hutchins

263. James Darren

264. Ricky Nelson

265. Faron Young

266. Jerry Lee Lewis

267. Ferlin Husky

268. Dolores Hart

269. James Garner

270. Everly Brothers
272. Sandra Dee

274. Robert Culp

275. Michael Ansara

276. Jack Kelly

277. Darlene Gillespie

278. Annette Funicello

279. David Stollery

280. Tim Considine

282. Johnny Mathis

283. David Nelson

284. Shirley Temple

285. Pat Conway

286. Bob Horton

287. John Payne

288. David Janssen

289. Dick Clark

291. Carol Lynley

292. Jimmie Rodgers
293- Guy Williams
294. Frankie Avalon

295. John Gavin

296. Lee Remick

297. Diane Varsi

298. Joanne Woodward

299. Teddy Randazzo

300. Paul Anka

301. Peter Brown

302. Edd Byrnes

303. Joni James

304. Jock Mahoney

305. Jim Franciscus

306. Efrem Zimbalist, Jr.

307. John Smith

308. Lloyd Bridges

309. John Russell

310. Gene Barry

311. Chuck Connors

312. Geo. Montgomery

313. Craig Stevens

314. Steve McQueen

315. Conway Twitty

316. Ty Hardin

317. Charles Bronson

318. Fabian

319. Roger Smith

320. Tuesday Weld

321. Dion •

322. Bobby Darin

323. Steve Rowland

324. Ken Miller

325. Connie Francis

326. James Broderick

327. Eric Fleming

328. Clint Eastwood

329. Gardner McKay

330. Connie Stevens

331. Millie Perkins

332. Burt Reynolds

333. Richard Long

334. Roger Moore

335. Van Williams

336. Peter Breck

337. Arlene Howell

338. Michael Landon

339. Pernell Roberts

340. David Ladd

341 . Bob Conrad

342. Dwayne Hickman

343. Dorothy Provine

344. Don Durant

345. Robert Fuller

346. Peggy Castle

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JANET AND TONY

Continued from page 51

was no mistake. Janet was mad. But
people should have known better than to
ever suggest there’d be a separation — or
a divorce. No marriage that has survived
as much good and bad as Tony’s and
Janet’s, is easily destroyed. Besides, they
were the first to admit they’d quarreled.
Like in the beginning . . .

They quarreled over everything and
nothing, like newlyweds do. They argued
because Tony dropped his dirty socks on
the living-room floor — and because Janet
picked them up. They quarreled because
Janet wanted to have meals three times
a day — and no being late — and Tony
wanted to exist on salted peanuts, eaten
whenever he was hungry. They fought
because Janet thought they should buy a
house — and Tony insisted they couldn’t
afford it.

But, in time, they learned to laugh and
to give. Tony, coaxed to the table, stayed
there to eat, to smile at his wife, to say
with the honesty that turned her heart
over with love, “You’re right about regu-
lar meals, Janet. I feel healthier these
days, you know? And Jan — even when we
fought about it — I loved you for loving
me enough to care about what kind of
junk I ate — ”

And Janet, learning also to give, to
bend, began to leave the ashes in the
ashtray rather than to leave Tony’s lap
to empty them; learned to let a little un-
tidyness creep into her home and into her
life — since it brought with it so much love
and tenderness. Learned to soften in her
attitudes, learned to be wrong and happy
sometimes, instead of right and in tears.

The little apartment was, perhaps, not
as neat as it used to be. But somehow they
seemed to spend much more time in it,
together, alone.

That was 1951, 1952, the early years.
They got through them by being ready
to change, ready to grow. But, in 1954,
they came to a place and a time where
change was not enough — where growth
came to a sudden, terrible halt.

And the strange thing was — it happened
partly because things were going so well.

They had moved, by then, from the
cramped little apartment, to a rented
house — roomy enough to satisfy Janet, not
too expensive to overwhelm Tony. They
had undoubted security now — money in
the bank, contracts in the desk drawer.
They had survived tragedy when Janet
lost their first baby halfway through her

pregnancy — with Tony thousands of miles
away on location for a film. They had got-
ten over that, helping each other, loving
each other.

They should have been a sure thing by
now.

But they weren’t.

“Why?” Tony would ask her, over and
over, pacing the floor, wearing restless
paths across the living-room carpeting.
“Why am I so jumpy? Why am I so moody
all the time? Up one minute, down the
next — ”

Janet would consider. “Well, the kind
of life we lead is sort of uncertain, always
on the go — ”

Impatiently, Tony shook his head. “That’s
not it. Not it at all. Look, if things were
lousy, I’d understand it. If things weren’t
going okay; I’d be right to be scared or
moody. Who wouldn’t be? But, Jan—
things are going great. And I’m still —
scared.”

“I don’t understand,” Janet said wor-
riedly. “What are you scared of? How do
you know something’s wrong?”

“I’ll tell you. A crazy thing happened
this afternoon. I’m standing on the set,
see, and this fellow came up and sort of
looked at me funny. So I said, ‘What’s the
matter, you don’t like my clothes?’ So he
said, ‘I never said a word about your
clothes.’ And I got furious. I said, ‘Don’t
tell me that, you’re looking at them like
you don’t like them, now get out of here,
don’t stare at me, beat it — ’ and then I
found out he wasn’t staring at me! He
wasn’t disliking my clothes — or anything!
He was just a man, just standing there,
that’s all. Don’t you understand?”

“No,” Janet said, bewilderedly, “I don’t.”
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a new demon
had come to rage in their lives; a demon
that neither patience nor love, nor talks
with Tony’s mother, could drive away.

And Hollywood, noting the lights that
burned late in the Curtis house, hearing
rumors of shouting and stamping and
slammed doors, watching Tony stalk
angrily through the quiet streets, lips tight,
eyes tense — Hollywood watched and
nodded and whispered, “They made it
this far, but no farther. This is the end . .
But there was no divorce.

But, that month, they made a decision
together that shook both of them deep and
hard — much deeper, much harder, than the
simple words describing it can imply. It
was this:

Tony would go to a psychiatrist. Tony
would go into analysis.

In our day and age, this is not news. In
Hollywood, particularly, analysis is as
common as Cadillacs — and more costly!

STATEMENT OF OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT. AND CIRCULATION REQUIRED BY THE ACT
OF CONGRESS OF AUGUST 24. 1912, AS AMENDED BY THE ACTS OF MARCH 3, 1933. AND
JULY 2. 1946 (Title 39. United States Code. Section 233) of PHOTOPLAY, published monthly at
New York, N. Y., for October 1, 1959.

1. The names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor, and business managers are: Publisher,
Macfadden Publications, Inc., 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N. Y. ; Editor. Evelyn Pain, 205 East 42nd St.,
New York 17, N. Y. ; Managing Editor, Claire Safran, 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N. Y. ; Secretary-
Treas., Meyer Dworkin, 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N. Y.

2. The owner is: (if owned by a corporation, its name and address must be stated and also immediately
thereunder the names and addresses of stockholders owning or holding 1 percent or more of total amount
of stock If not owned by a corporation, the names and addresses of the individual owners must be given.
If owned by a partnership or other unincorporated firm, its name and address, as well as that of each
individual member, must be given.) Macfadden Publications, Inc., 205 East 42nd St.. New York 17, N. Y. ;
Meyer Dworkin, c/o Macfadden Publications. Inc.. 205 East 42nd St., New York 17. N. Y. ; (Mrs.) Anna
Feldman, 835 Main St., Peekskill, N. Y. ; Henry Lieferant. Hotel Franconia, 20 W. 72nd St., New York 23,
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3. The known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding 1 percent or more
of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities are: (If there are none, so state.) None.

4. Paragraphs 2 and 3 include, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears upon the books
of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of the person or corporation for whom
such trustee is acting; also the statements in the two paragraphs show the affiant’s full knowledge and belief
as to the circumstances and conditions under which stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon
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5. The average number of copies of each issue of this publication sold or distributed, through the mails
or otherwise, to paid subscribers during the 12 months preceding the date shown above was: (This
information is required from daily, weekly, semiweekly, and triweekly newspapers only.)

(Signed) MEYER DWORKIN, Secretary-Treasurer
Sworn to and subscribed before me this 23rd day of September, 1959.

(SEAL) TULLIO MUCELLI, Notary Public

State of New York No. 03-8045500
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Cert. Filed in New York Co.
Commission Expires March 30, 1960

But to Tony Curtis, brought up in the
hard, tough world of the slums, lying on
a psychiatrist’s couch was not a fashion-
able pastime— but a terror and a disgrace.

It was something for crazy men, not for
him. For guys who thought they were
Napoleon. It was an admission that he had
lost control of his own life. . . . For all
he knew, it meant he was really insane —
that he would end up in an asylum . . .

And to Janet it meant, in a little way,
she had failed as a wife.

Tony, literally shaking in his shoes, went
to the analyst the next day and was
relieved to find, not a cushioned couch,
but a desk and a chair, and a battery of
tests lined up for him to take. He took
them; the result came out: Sick. That he
already knew. But something else came
out that he had not expected:

“Your intelligence rating is very inter-
esting,” the doctor said. “Your score is in
the ‘low-brilliant’ class.”

“ ‘Low brilliant!’ ” Tony snorted. “What
are you giving me? At the studio I tell
them, don’t send me complicated scripts — -
I don’t understand a word of them.”

“Really?” the doctor said gently. “Now,
that’s interesting, too, isn’t it? Why do you
suppose a man who has a brilliant mind
thinks he’s stupid?”

That night, Janet heard the story from
her bewildered husband. She listened
carefully; she said nothing. Tony’s prob- :
lems belonged to the psychiatrist now, j j
didn’t they? However much it hurt, she I
would be doing the right thing for him I
by not interfering — wouldn’t she?

But she had always read a great deal, I
ever since her college days. That week, 1
she finished a book, a new novel by a fine I
writer. She dropped it casually, one eve-
ning, on a table by Tony’s club chair. “Just >1
got done with it today,” she remarked, off-
hand. “I thought it was pretty fair — maybe j
you’d like to read it — ”

“Aw,” Tony said disparagingly, as he
had said so many times in the past, when J
Janet suggested a book, a movie, a play 1
he thought too intellectual for him. But, j
this time, his voice trailed off. This time J
Janet, busying herself on the other side I
of the room, saw from the corner of her 1
eye, that her husband’s hand moved slowly 9
toward the book, picked it up, dropped it, fa
picked it up again . . .

The lights burned late in the Curtis 1
home again that night. But not because 1
of a fight.

Tony was reading a book.

Two days later, at dinner, he said to
her: “You know, I finished that book of
yours this afternoon. I phoned you five
times to tell you what I thought about it —
got me all worked up. Only, finally, I
remembered you were working today — 1
funny, I was really dying to talk about it.” $
Her heart did a small flip. And she I
thought: I should have been home this 1
afternoon. It was important. I wish I had
been.

The months went by. Now Tony was *
seeing the doctor three to five times a 2
week. Almost every day, Janet watched I
him go. Tony did seem calmer now, she I
told herself. Happier to live with. And, fl
of course, that was good for him, good J
for their marriage. But she herself felt I
helpless, useless. She didn’t want a good 1
marriage handed to her on a silver platter I
— she wanted to build it herself, with her 1
own hands and heart.

But she waited.

And then, one day at the studio, she ]
received a phone call. They held up j
shooting to let her answer it, because j
Tony insisted so. She picked up the phone 1
and his excited voice said, “Jan? Jan — r
listen, honey. We had what the doctor i
calls a ‘breakthrough’ today. I remembered .

something I’ve been hiding from myself —
it’s been half killing me all these years,
and I didn’t even know it was there. About
my brother Julie, the one who got killed
when we were kids. It turns out I’ve been
blaming myself for it all my life, because
sometimes I wasn’t good to him, and just
before he died, I didn’t want to take him
to this parade — it’s a long story. But it
wasn’t my fault, Jan — I can see that now.
It was one of those things that just hap-
pens sometimes. I feel as if — as if a full
pack had been taken off my back, you
know? Oh, Jan— you couldn’t get away
now for a couple of hours, could you?
I’ve got to talk to you — ”

She looked around. Behind her, the
director glanced conspicuously at his
watch; her co-star tapped his foot im-
patiently; they were waiting for her. “No,”
she said at last, “I can’t, Tony. We’re in the
middle — ”

“Sure,” Tony said at once. “I know. It
was dumb of me to even ask. But hurry
home, honey, as soon as you can. I want
you so much — ”

She put down the phone and went back
to her work. But while her mouth spoke
the words of the script, and her body
moved obediently along the lines blocked
out by the director, her heart cried over
and over, between tears and joy —

He needs me. He needs me. He needs
me.

When the picture was completed, she
made the greatest sacrifice she had ever
made. She relinquished the career that had
taken so many years to build, the stardom
she had loved. “As long as Tony needs
me,” she said, “I will make no more
movies, except with him. I won’t be
away from my husband now.” And with
one exception, a film to which she was
already committed, she stuck to it all the
way.

She was home for Tony, after that.
Home to talk to him about the new books
he was devouring now with the hunger
of a starved child, home to rejoice with
him over a new revelation — and home,
also, to help him through the bad spots
that inevitably come in every analysis —
the times when old, forgotten memories,
horribly painful to revive, are dragged
to the surface of the mind to be examined,
understood, and finally dismissed forever.
She was there during the times when
progress seemed to stop, when Tony des-
paired. She was there, sometimes pounds
thinner than she had been in years, to
take the worst of it — and help it get better.
If she read, with envy, of other actresses
getting roles she knew had been meant
for her, she said nothing. For she knew
she was needed.

There was a new life for them both.
There was a time at last, two or three
years later, when Tony and Janet seemed
to shed their old skins and emerge dif-
ferent people. When Tony’s speech took on
the accents and vocabulary of a good
mind released from its fear of itself; when
his love of exciting clothes transformed
itself into an appreciation of fine fabrics
and good tailoring — and maybe just a little
touch of bravado here and there. A time
when Hollywcod recognized the change
by considering Tony for roles in good
pictures, roles that required not a young
man with a handsome face and a well-
distributed set of muscles, but an actor
who could make an audience laugh and
cry and love.

And for Janet, she had a husband now,
who could protect her, comfort her, take
care of her.

It wasn’t all smooth, but what marriage
is?

When Tony went to Paris, for “Trapeze,”
and Janet to Africa, for “Safari,” at the
same time, their first separation in years,
the gossip columns were full of rumors

again. There were so many, that even
Janet and Tony wondered if they could
be right.

They found, instead, Tony in Paris,
Janet in Africa, that there was no
excitement in others, nor in new places,
nor even in new work — when they were
apart. They discovered that there was no
surprise they didn’t want to share, no
beauty when they saw it alone. They
flew to each other every weekend. They
took, at the end of their stay in Europe,
six long weeks to explore France and Italy
together, walking, talking, holding hands—
falling in love for the second time; surer
than the first.

They came home knowing that Janet
was going to have a baby. Knowing that
this time, it would be she who needed the
help, the comfort, the strong protecting
arm — and that Tony would be able to give
it to her.

She had that baby, Kelly — and later,
Jamie. Her husband bent over her in the
hospital, when the months of waiting and
fear and illness and accidents that at-
tended each pregnancy were over, and
thanked her for his children, and for
everything. And Janet, remembering the
ease of knowing, when something went
wrong, that Tony was there, that Tony
would make it right, said to him:

“Don’t thank me, darling. Anything I
ever did, you’ve paid me for. Not just by
being so good, by giving me something
so wonderful, but by teaching me to love
enough so that nothing else matters;
nothing can destroy us — now or ever.”

They are frank people, Tony and Janet
Curtis. Because it is in their nature. They
have spoken honestly and often about
their troubles, about their solutions, about
their happiness. They have put it many
ways.

Tony has said: “We’ve grown up now, I
think. And part of the wonderfulness of
that is, that we don’t have to make a dis-
play of our love to anybody but ourselves.
We have it made, and as long as we know
that, it doesn’t matter what others say.
Our marriage will last forever, and we can
pass that heritage on to our children.”

Janet has said: “It’s true that we’ve had
some pretty big problems to work out
during our marriage. There was one ter-
rible period when nothing seemed right
with us — or almost nothing. We fought
and fought hard. But we didn’t separate.
Now, our love is more mature. It’s not
just a bright, romantic flame. The romance
is still there, of course, but there’s also
much more — respect and understanding, a
deep regard for the feelings of each other,
liking as well as loving. It will last.”

— ROBERTA DOWNS

don’t MISS JANET AND TONY IN “WHO WAS
THAT LADY” FOR COL. JANET WILL ALSO BE
SEEN IN “psycho” FOR PAR. AND TONY IN
par.’s “the RAT RACE,” AND u.i.’s “OPERATION
petticoat” and “spartacus.”

Answers to Last Month’s Puzzle

n|i |e

u |g |h

A U

P- 1 Y 1 P

■S

R | O | B | 1

ih.

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FOR FIRST DATES

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EXIT LAUGHING

Continued from page 38

flat on the floor for the movie “The Case
of the Curious Bride.” One of his early
pictures, “Captain Blood,” made him world
famous as a hero who conquered all
enemies single-handed.

I can’t remember exactly how or where
I met Errol. I didn’t know him at the
time of his first marriage to Lili Damita,
who won a million or thereabouts in
alimony. They met on shipboard when Lili
was on her way to Hollywood for the first
time and whamie! — she took one look and
flipped for Flynn. It wasn’t a happy mar-
riage. They had one son, Sean, a hand-
some boy, now eighteen.

I came to know him well and love him
as a friend shortly after he married Nora
Eddington. He met Nora in the court-
house during that dreadful ordeal when
a 17-year-old girl accused Errol of rape
on a boat he owned at the time. Nora, the
daughter of a Los Angles deputy sheriff,
was working behind the counter of the
courthouse cigar store. Errol was ac-
quitted by the jury.

He was a good friend. Actors and ac-
tresses, Panamanian rebels, notables, riff-
raff, writers, artists all loved him

His charm, his ability to see the humor
in everything, no matter how threatening
to his own security, was delightful. Only
once, did he let down the mask with me.
We were driving home from Palm Springs
through a mean section of Los Angeles,
when Errol pointed out a dilapidated old
hotel, and said, “Ever know what it is
to live in a hole like that, old girl?”
Something in the way he said it, revealed
to me that Errol had gone through much
he never talked about. No one ever
guessed that hurt and humiliation cut him
deeply. No one.

One thing the world doesn’t seem to
realize is that Errol was a gentleman and
something of a scholar. When I first knew
Errol, his gentle father, a zoology pro-
fessor, was teaching at Queens University
in Belfast, Ireland. Errol himself became
interested in marine zoology, and launched
many expeditions with professors at
Scripps College in California. They re-
spected and loved Errol. His father visited
Errol in Hollywood, often for several
months at a time.

Errol was a rogue and a schemer. He’d
go to any lengths to frustrate law en-
forcers, tax men, process servers. Not that
he objected to them, personally, but it
gave him a terrific kick to outwit legal-
beagles.

He used to stop by my apartment on
Oylmpic Boulevard on his way home from
M-G-M, when he was making a movie
with Greer Garson (I think it was “That
Forsyte Woman”), to regale me with the
elaborate schemes he’d concocted to out-
wit some legal action of some sort. I
once said, “Wouldn’t it be simpler, Errol,
just to face it and get it over with?” He
looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Old
girl, what would be the fun of that?”

I remember, I had an interview sched-
uled with actor Richard Basehart one
evening around six at my home, when who
should burst in unannounced, but Flynn.
“Mind if I take a bath, Sara me darling?”
he said, and was off to the bathroom be-
fore I could open my mouth. In the mean-
time, Basehart, who had played a small
part in one of Errol’s pictures, arrived and
there was Errol, wrapped in a towel,
flitting from telephone to tub, making long
distance calls and finally settling down for
a drink. Basehart told me afterwards, it
was the most wonderful, delightful eve-

ning he had ever spent. That was Flynn for
you!

He had fallen in love with Jamaica and
had his new yacht, the Zaca, brought from
California to Port Antonio in Jamaica,
where it was docked next to a private
island owned entirely by Flynn. It was
called Navy Island, and on its highest hill,
still stood the old guns that had with-
stood pirates years before.

Errol insisted I fly with him and Nora
to Jamaica to be his guest on the yacht.
They were making personal appearances
in Denver, at the time, and I was to meet
them there. I remember my plane was
late, held up along the way, and it was
about two in the morning when I arrived.
Flynn’s agent was at the airport to meet
me and under my hotel door was a note
of welcome.

Next day, Errol insisted I make a hos-
pital tour with him and Nora in Denver
and the next day we took off, stopping in
Miami for dinner.

Those weeks on the Zaca were unbe-
lievable. It was moored in port because of
litigation of some kind (wouldn’t you
know?), which delighted me, for I’m a
poor sailor. Errol was a wonderful sailor.

We visited the banana boats that put in
from England, toured the island in Flynn’s
car (I can’t remember how it got there),
swam in the unbelievably blue lagoons
near the island, and Flynn even made a
movie while there on his island. I acted in
it. We ail did. He directed it. I later saw
it as a travelog and it wasn’t bad. Thank
heavens my walk-on was cut out.

We dined by candlelight on deck and,
for some reason — it delighted Errol— the
calypso singers all referred to me as “Miss
Sara T.” A few years later, Errol brought
me from Paris a suede notebook initialed
in gold, “Miss Sara T.”

I met Noel Coward through Errol in the
Myrtlebank Hotel in Kingston. Our table
in the dining room was always the mecca
for visiting celebrities and tourists. I re-
member some Australian lads, who had
arrived in port on a small boat, were
broke and discouraged. They got in touch
with Errol, who set them up with a party
right on the dock, had them over to the
yacht in Port Antonio for the day and gave
them money to get them going.

Errol bought a pineapple plantation near
Port Antonio that had a house of
sorts on it. He and Nora and I went
over it together, suggesting alterations and
repairs, and here, some months later, he
installed his parents. They later went back
to Ireland, where Professor Flynn re-
sumed his teaching job.

Later, back home, Errol and Nora in-
vited me to be their guest for a weekend
in Palm Springs, and in all my life, I’ve
never had as much fun nor laughed as
much. From the time we arrived at the
Racquet Club, Clark Gable and his girl of
the moment joined us. We were the envy
of everyone there. It was just one of those
weekends when everything happened. We
played practical jokes and had a ball.
Clark hated to see us go on Sunday eve-
ning. I remember, Errol and Nora and I
stopped at a Chinese restaurant in some
little town on the way home, and we tele-
phoned back to Clark with some more
crazy nonsense. Clark and Errol called
each other “old Dad.” I never did know
why.

I was having dinner at Clark’s home one
evening, some months later, when Clark
told me he’d heard on the radio, Errol had
had an operation. I telephoned his home
immediately. There he was — all alone. (I
don’t know where the family was.) So the
next morning, early, I went up and stayed
the day with him. I saw to it that he ate
something.

Wherever he went, trouble followed.
One of the funniest brawls he ever got
into, was the time he kicked a New York
cop in the shin and was promptly arrested.
Humphrey Bogart, who was with him,
tried to explain it wasn’t all Errol’s fault —
but to no avail. He quarreled with his old
pal Bruce Cabot in Rome, was constantly
being sued by women for rape and assault.
But he came up smiling. And what a smile.

In his dressing room, out at Warners,
the wine flowed from 4 o’clock on and yet
he never missed a scene. He was always
on time and made no trouble on sets. Jack
Warner loved him. Everyone did. You
couldn’t help it. He met Patrice Wymore,
when she came out here to make movies,
at Warners. Nora had divorced him and
married Dick Haymes. Errol went back to
Kansas (I’ve forgotten exactly where) to
meet Pat’s family and get married. They
had one daughter, Amelia.

Errol slowly shed the Hollywood scene,
after marriage to Pat, and went to Europe.
But, when he came back to sign for “The
Sun Also Rises” at Warners, he saw that
across the way “Marjorie Morningstar”
was being filmed.

In that picture, was a girl called Beverly
Aadland, who had a small dancing role.
She caught Errol’s eye and ’tis said that,
when Errol went to Mexico for “The Sun
Also Rises” (he was absolutely marvelous
in it), Pat heard that Beverly went along.

When Errol returned to Hollywood
recently, for a Red Skelton TV show,
Nora invited all his old friends to a
party. Unfortunately, I was unable to at-
tend, though I wanted to see Errol. Nora
said he was disappointed. Anyway, it
seems that at the party, Beverly made a
remark Nora resented and the fur flew.
Flynn went home, taking Beverly with
him. She later returned alone. Nora said
the fracas took place in the parking lot
and the reporters picked it up and ex-
aggerated the story.

Beverly gave each of Errol’s and Nora’s
children, Deirdre, 14 and Rory, 13, a pair
of their father’s cuff-links as a memento,
and returned to Nora an expensive pencil
she had once given Errol, marked “To
E.F. from N.F.” Errol’s women never for-
got him. I believe Pat Wymore still loves
him, too.

Deirdre always called her father The
Baron. He was devoted to his children,
and they loved him, too.

Recently, he was on TV with Bette Davis
in an old movie, “Elizabeth and Essex,”
and he was so handsome, you could hardly
think of him as ever growing old. Olivia
de Havilland, Bette Davis, Ann Sheridan
and all his other leading ladies, were his
friends. So were Greer Garson, Pat
O’Brien, Jack Oakie. And I am very proud
to say that Errol was my friend, too.

I went to Errol’s funeral with his
daughters, Deirdre and Rory. As I stood
there, with tears in my eyes, I remembered
the words he’d written in a recent letter
to me: “. . . I’ll wager, Sara me darling,
you knew better than anyone. I never
gave a damn what was said of me, rightly
or wrongly. When I was a somewhat
notorious, resentful one ’round town, I
figured I deserved all the brickbats that
came my way; all the knocks, the lam-
poons, the festoons, the harpoons; but it
was nobody’s business — and what the hell
could I do about it anyway? ‘Better never
deny, never protest, never counterattack.’ ”
And he ended the letter, “Do you think
I might become a pillar of society?”

I knew the answer, even as 1 paid him
my last respects. “No, Errol, you couldn’t.
Because if you had settled down, you
wouldn’t have been you.” And you, Errol,
were something special.

—SARA HAMILTON

ww— P

JOAN CRAWFORD

Continued from page 44

brought the photos back. “I can’t do it,” he
said frankly. “She’s too much for me. You
get Picasso to paint Joan Crawford. Me—
I’m not good enough to get all those con-
tradictions into one little picture.”

He was telling the simple truth.

Joan Crawford does not fit easily into
anyone’s picture-frame.

She is a woman who has had four hus-
bands— and lives alone, without love.

She has four children, all adopted, all
raised with every moment of care and ten-
derness a mother could give — and she is
separated from two of them, perhaps
estranged.

She has recently lost “the only security
I have ever known” — and yet she turns a
smiling face to the world.

Those who dislike her most, seem to
respect and admire her best, but she has
been heard to say, “I don’t like myself. I
don’t have respect for me.”

Contradictions, yes.

And yet, Joan Crawford’s portrait is
drawn every day.

It is a portrait she has been painting
herself since she came to Hollywood in
1925, with baby-fat on her cheeks and
“Lucille LeSueur” as the name on her
contract.

Joan Crawford fought her battle to the
top alone — fought it and won. She became
a star when “star” was not a dirty word.
And she has never given up her hard-won
rights and privileges, simply because
fashions in stardom have changed.

Six weeks after her fourth husband,
Alfred Steele, died of a heart attack,
Joan Crawford went back to work. She
had not made a movie in more than a
year, and the part in which she returned
to the screen was not a starring role which
dominated an entire film. It was just a
| small role, though an important one, in a
big movie, “The Best of Everything.”

But on the first day of work, she played
a scene which became more famous in
Hollywood than any written in the script.
It happened at the end of some business
being played between Hope Lange and
Joan Crawford; the lines were finished
and, according to the script, there re-
mained only for Joan to go out through a
door and close it behind her, while Hope
stood staring after her. They did it once,

then again. On the third time through,
Hope interrupted.

“Would you mind,” she asked in her
soft voice, “letting me close the door when
you leave?”

For a moment Joan stared at her. Then
she said slowly, “No, you can’t. It’s my line
and my exit. 1 close the door.”

Hope’s voice was hesitant. “But I don’t
know what to do with my hands — ”

Again there was a pause. Again Joan’s
eyebrows raised. And then the icy voice,
at which top directors, famous leading
men, wealthy producers all have trembled,
said, “Then I suggest you find something
to do!”

There was a slight gasp from the people
who overheard. If Joan Crawford heard,
she gave no sign.

But her daughter Christina could have
explained.

Christina is the oldest of the adopted
Crawford children. She’d been placed in
Joan’s arms when she was scarcely three
weeks old — and now she’s left those arms,
seemingly forever.

Christina lives alone now, in a small dark
flat in New York, while across town,
her mother maintains an eight-room
duplex apartment whose vast rooms echo
emptiness, loneliness and longing.

Christina had said to her mother, “You’re
cruel. You’re hard. You’re impossible. You
want me to do impossible things. Why
shouldn’t I use my name when I call up
producers? I want to be an actress — it’s
a good name for an actress, Christina
Crawford. It sounds good. And it’s mine,
isn’t it? It belongs to me — ”

And Joan, sitting wearily, her head in
her hands, had said, “But it belongs to me,
too, Christina. People hear it and know
you’re my daughter. They make things
easier for you because of that. If you
didn’t have the name, you wouldn’t have
any advantage over the others, the other
struggling kids — ”

Helplessly, Christina turned away. “You
want me to suffer!”

“All right!” Joan said harshly. Throwing
back her head, she raised bright, angry
eyes to her daughter. “All right, you said
it yourself. I want you to suffer. I do! I
want you to struggle and fear and worry
the way I did. I want you to have to fight
for everything you get, for every step you
make. I want it to be hard on you — be-
cause I know, I know, Christina — that’s
the only way to do it right. What you’ve
suffered to learn, you don’t forget. What
you’ve struggled to get, you don’t throw

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away easily. I don’t want you to be just a
personality, a nothing. They come fast
and go fast. But a star — a fetar is forever.
That’s what I want for my daughter. I
want you to be great — and I know there’s
no easy way.” Her voice softened suddenly.
Her hands opened on her lap. “Chris, baby
— don’t think it’s easy for me, either. I
love you. I don’t want you to be hungry
the way I was when I started out, or alone,
or trying to live on fifteen dollars a week;
I know about those things and I don’t want
you ever to know them. But the rest — the
struggle to make people know who you
are, to listen to you, to respect your talent
— that I do want for you. Don’t you un-
derstand— ”

Christina Crawford, living alone in New
York, making a career for herself, trying
to resolve the conflict between her mother’s
name and her mother’s beliefs — Christina
could have told them why Joan Crawford
wouldn’t let Hope Lange close the door.

Another color added to the portrait;
another feature filled in.

“Who does she think she is?” people
have asked. “The Queen Bee?”

That question might have been answered
by a certain Hollywood psychologist or a
New York doctor. Or perhaps by Christo-
pher Crawford, the second of Joan’s adopt-
ed children.

But Christopher was in an institution
for the care of wayward boys.

He had not been an easy child to raise.
He was adopted in 1942, three years
after Christina, who had been adopted at
a time when Joan had two divorces behind
her, when she believed that, because her
marriages to Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. and
Franchot Tone had not worked, she was a
failure as a wife and had better not try
again. In 1939, Joan Crawford was des-
perately in need of someone to love, some-
one to care for. She had adopted Christina
out of need and loneliness.

But Christopher came at a happier time.
Christopher was adopted in a year when
Joan had changed her mind about mar-
riage, had decided she could be a wife.
Her career was failing badly. But she was
falling in love with young Phil Terry.
She thought they could build a fine life
together. She had four miscarriages in her
two previous marriages, but she wanted
children to share her happiness and Phil’s.
“No child,” she said, “should be brought up
in an institution, however good. A child
should have a home of his own.”

So she adopted Christopher. She brought
him into her life to be made happy, to be
given all the things a child should have —
all the love and care and guidance — and
she found it easy to give these things.

But there was one thing she failed to
take into consideration.

Her marriage to Phil Terry did not work
out.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault — not exactly.
Her marriage to Doug Fairbanks had
failed because she was too young, too in-
experienced for the sophisticated circle in
which he and his parents moved; her
marriage to Franchot Tone failed because
his career was moving down, while hers
moved steadily up. And her marriage to
Phil grew weaker under still another
strain — neither of them was doing well at
the time; both of them were jumpy, irri-
table, tense.

In 1946, when Joan, with more than
twenty starring films behind her, was
suddenly tagged “box-office poison,” they
were divorced.

Less than a year later, Christopher be-
gan to run away from home.

At first it was a joke. Then it was a
problem. Then it became, with the passing
years, an agony to be lived through by
both mother and child. The regular changes

of school — “Maybe he’ll like this one.”
The consultations with doctors. With psy-
chologists. The encounters with policemen
who brought him home. The sneers in the
papers about movie stars who couldn’t
bring up children.

She didn’t answer the sneers. She didn’t
have the time. She had made “Mildred
Pierce” by then, and had won an Oscar
for it. She was in demand again, and she
worked — partly because she needed the
money, partly because work was as neces-
sary to her as breathing. But every mo-
ment that was her own, she gave to her
children, and especially to Christopher. She
had no time to defend herself to the news-
papers, but she had time to devise new
ways of interesting Christopher in his
home, of helping him with his school work.
She had time to watch and wonder, to
come to conclusions and bring them to the
psychologist to discuss:

“Doctor, I want to tell you — a sort of
idea I have. It seems silly, but I was think-
ing back, and it seems to hold true for the
past three years, anyway. You know the
way Chris always has to be tops at any-
thing he does or he won’t do it at all?
Well, he’s a terrific football player, always
the star at school in football season. But
the football season only lasts through fall
and early winter. And in spring they forget
all about it and play baseball, instead.
Well, Christopher isn’t very good at base-
ball. He won’t even let me come and watch
a game; he says he’s terrible at it. I think
the kids laugh. I wouldn’t even mention
it — I told you it sounds silly — but it’s al-
ways in baseball season, in spring, that he
runs away. . . .”

It gave them something to work with.
It gave them the hint to fill the restless
months of spring with activity for Chris,
long walks and picnics, trips and visits,
everything time and love could provide.

But it wasn’t enough. The day came,
finally, when it was the psychologist
who did the talking — and what he said
was not easy to hear. Chris needed a com-
plete change. He needed to leave home. He
needed to leave his mother. There was a
doctor in New York who would be willing
to work with him and give him a home
in his house. It would be the best thing
for Chris. . . .

Then, when the psychologist looked at
the stricken woman before him, he spoke
gently. “Don’t think you’ve failed him,”
he said. “You’ve done everything a mother
could do. It’s not your fault. . . .”

He expected tears and collapse. But the
eyes that stared past him without seeing,
were dry. The voice was like ice.

“Don’t be kind,” Joan Crawford said.
“I have failed him — I didn’t give him a
father.” Then she added, “Sometimes I
don’t like myself very well. . . .”

The man on the sound-stage would have
been surprised to know that this voice of
ice, this pitiless voice, could turn on her-
self as well.

The psychologist could have told him so.
The New York doctor could have told
him other things: About what happened
later. About how, while living with him on
Long Island, Christopher and three friends
got air rifles and went on a shooting spree
— just for fun. How they aimed the rifles,
not meaning to hit anyone — but there was
an accident — a teenage girl had her front
teeth knocked out. Her parents called the
police, and the doctor phoned Florida,
where Joan, now married to Alfred Steele,
had gone with her husband on a business
trip. He could have told him that the
voice that whispered, “No — oh, God — no”
over and over into the phone, had no ice
in it at all. He could have told them of
how that same voice begged futilely: “Let
me take him home. I have a husband now

—we’ll help him together. Let me take
him home — ”

But the police said no. The police sent
Christopher away for “correction and help”
— and the woman, who believed that no
child should be raised in an institution, had
to see her son setting off for one. Had to
say goodbye to him, and then, knowing
that, because he was her son, the news-
papers would be full of his story and
word would reach his little sisters, her
twin daughters — she had to find the words
to tell the girls about it quickly:

“Christopher failed to live up to so-
ciety’s expectations,” she said. “Society
has ways of taking care of these things.
When Christopher learns to behave the
way society wants him to, then he’ll come
home again.”

Calm words, to explain the inexplicable
to children.

To a reporter, who called her about it
the next day, she said, in a voice in which
there was neither ice nor calm, but only
pride: “They are my children, God’s
greatest gift to me. Without them, my life
would have been insupportable. I love
them,” she said. “Nothing will ever change
that.”

She had loved few times in her stormy
life. A few men — but that didn’t always
last. Four children — and she had only
two of them left. Her role as a great star —
all of that came constantly under attack
from those who didn’t know, didn’t under-
stand— or who saw only half the portrait.

She had loved Alfred Steele, and on
April 19, 1959, he died of a heart attack,
and love was over.

She had recovered from everything
else; she had remembered always that
she was a star, that the face she turned
to the public was always to be gracious,
calm, remote. She had hidden behind that
face until she could face every crisis of
her life — and always she had succeeded.

Now, in her greatest heartbreak, she
turned to it again. She remained in seclu-
sion, in her New York apartment, until
the day her eyes were not too red and
sore with weeping to allow make-up to be
applied; on that day, she took from among
the forty or fifty hats she kept in her
dressing room, a huge flowered one and
set it resolutely on her head. And she
went to lunch at a restaurant, to face the
world not as Mrs. Steele, a widow, but as
Joan Crawford, star. People wondered, and
she told them:

“I had four years of the greatest happi-
ness any woman could know. I was mar-
ried to a man who told me, every day of
our life together, how he loved me, what
I meant to him. He was proud of me. He
loved me not just for being his wife, but
for being Joan Crawford. He used to say,
‘Use your name in public. You’ve earned
it.’ I would shame his memory if I forgot
to be Joan Crawford now, if I gave way.
He would say, ‘You owe more than that
to your public, to yourself, to me.’ And he
would be right.”

The carefully made-up lips said those
words; the dark eyes looked steadily
ahead. Those who heard only the even
voice, who looked at only half the por-
trait, said: “I thought, when Steele died,
she’d mellow. But no one’s even seen her
cry. Nothing will change that one. Noth-
ing—”

They should have spoken to a couple
who have known Joan for many years; a
couple who walked behind the black-
veiled figure, when she left the grave of
her husband; a couple who remembered
how Joan and Steele had celebrated their
monthly anniversaries; who thought that
the precise, accurate calendar of her mind
would turn now to monthly anniversaries
of a different sort — the first, second, third —

of his death. Yes, they knew the real Joan.

On the sixth anniversary, the hardest
one so far, they determined privately to
drop in on Joan, to busy her with company
— to be there if she needed them.

So, on the morning of October 19th, they
rang the bell of her mansion in Brentwood,
and they smiled brightly at the high-
heeled, smartly-dressed woman who came
to the door with her make-up on, her
hair up — because Joan Crawford would
never go to the door any other way.

Come in,” she said. “I was just making
myself some breakfast. Won’t you join
me?” Over the food, they talked . . .
At ten minutes after ten, the kitchen
door swung open. A maid, with a dust pan
in her hand, stood there. “Miss Crawford?
Could I speak to you a moment?”

“Of course,” Joan said. She pushed back
her chair, left the room. In the kitchen,
her friends heard a murmur of voices, and
then hurrying feet. They waited. They
heard footsteps climb the stairs. Then
silence. Long silence. They waited —

“I’ve got to see,” the woman said at last.
“Maybe something’s wrong . .

With the man behind her, she left the
kitchen. At the foot of the stairs, they
hesitated, then climbed up. A wide, sunny
hall lay before them, lined with doors.
They walked slowly along it, and then
stopped. From behind one of the doors,
sobs came, harsh and violent.

The woman pushed the door open and
went in

Joan Crawford lay on the bed, weeping.
“Joan,” the woman said softly. “Joan,
what is it? Tell me . . .”

Immediately, the sobs stopped. With a
tremendous effort of will, Joan Crawford
sat up straight, pulled herself together.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s
Masterpiece, my dog. The maid came to
tell me he’s sick. Someone must have fed
him something wrong; it’s incompetence
again — people who don’t know . . .” She
took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she re-
peated.

The woman said, “But Joan — you mustn’t
carry on this way. He’ll be all right, won’t
he? Well, then — I don’t understand. To
torment yourself — over a dog—”

The bent head nodded. “Yes,” Joan
Crawford said. “It is, isn’t it? I — I don’t
know what’s wrong with me today . . .”

“I don’t understand it,” the woman said
later. “Joan Crawford — to break down like
that because Masterpiece has a tummy
ache! When she’s survived so much else
and never cracked. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” the man said. “Look at this.
It was on the floor by her bed.”

He handed the woman a crumpled scrap
of paper. Slowly, she smoothed it out. It
was a sheet torn from a calendar; in bold
red letters, it proclaimed the date: October
19, 1959. And below it, in the precise hand-
writing of Joan Crawford, a few inked
words.

“No tears,” the page read. “No tears for
Alfred. No tears —

A touch here — a touch there — but the
portrait is never finished. The portrait of
Joan Crawford, the enigma, will never be
complete. There will always be those
who say she is hard — and those who say
she is strong. Those who call her cruel
— and those who call her loving. Those
who call her wise — and those who call her
false.

But of one thing there can be no doubt,
no argument.

One thing Joan Crawford is, indisput-
ably, and always.

She is a very great star.

Perhaps the last one in Hollywood.

—CHARLOTTE DINTER

joan’s in 20th’s “the best of everything.”

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LENNONS’ MIRACLE

Continued from page 42

part of you, but trying to tell others about
it makes it seem all out of proportion.” The
word of God, the spirit of faith, the sym-
bols of their religion are everywhere, but
so is the sound of laughter, the thunder of
feet running across the floors and the mis-
chievous noises of children at play.

Christmas is something the Lennons
look forward to every year. They know
that, a week before Christmas, Bill Lennon
will bring home a huge evergreen tree and
set it up in the living room for the whole
family to trim. The ornaments, kept from
year to year, are carefully unwrapped.
Down in the comer of one carton is a box
of Christmas balls that have a special
signficance; they are left over from the
first tree that Bill and Sis decorated that
first holiday season of their marriage.
Everyone has fun trimming the tree, even
the littlest of the clan. This year, while
Dianne ran to the door to see if the post-
man had brought her another letter from
her fiance, Dick Gass, baby Annie crawled
over and, all by herself, tossed strands of
silky silver tinsel on the bottom branches.
When she was done, she had more on her-
self than on the tree, bm her coos of de-
light were worth the time it took Janet
to get her hair brushed free of silver. Then
Joey, who was the littlest Lennon last
Christmas, began to get the hang of things.
Before anyone could stop him, Joey picked
up three tiny Christmas bells and, wad-
dling over on his chubby legs, managed to
hang them on the branches. Then he stood
and clapped at his own performance, until
the older children had tears of laughter
in their eyes at the sight.

Into the midst of this burst a glowing
Dianne. Dick had sent her two letters.
Janet couldn’t help kidding her about it.
“You’re not going to be able to walk down
the aisle if you don’t stop running to the
door every time the postman comes.”

And Dianne blushed, perhaps thinking
about next year when she and Dick might
be trimming their own tree. Dick would be
out of service by then.

In years gone by, Sis and the girls used
to whip soap flakes into artificial snow, but
now the girls take turns spraying ready-
made snow on the branches. This year,
Janet wound up with one side of her head
pure white, and it was Dianne’s turn to
tease her. Sometimes the mess of prepara-
tion is pretty terrible, but by Christmas
Eve everything is always all straightened
out and in place, and it looks beautiful.

After the little ones are tucked into bed,
the four girls know that they and
their parents will really get busy. Out
will come the stockings to be filled with
tiny gifts and fruit and nuts and lots of
assorted goodies, then hung on the mantel.
Under the tree will go piles of gaily be-
ribboned packages and off will go the
lights — all except for those on the tree.
Sis will set the flickering Christmas can-
dles on a table, while Bill throws a Yule
log into the fireplace, and then, surrounded
by the glow of holiday decorations, they’ll
wake up the little children, tell them that
Santa Claus has come and gone, and in a
minute all of the family will gather around
the tree. They’ll sit in a circle on the floor
and, while Bill gets ready to hand out the
gifts, Sis will carry in a tray of hot choco-
late with marshmallows for the children.

Then Daddy Bill will give the presents
out, teasingly prolonging the ritual as
much as he can, until the young ones are
nearly bursting with impatience. He’ll take
a box from beneath the tree, hold it up to
the light, study the tag and then, with a

straight face, say, “Here, Pat — this one
seems to be for you . . .” Then, just as Pat
beams and leans forward to take hold of
the box, Bill will accidentally-on-purpose
hand it to Danny. But when he sees Pat’s
face fall, Bill will turn around again and,
wishing his son a merry Christmas, finally
hand him the package. This will go on
until everyone has their gifts, and the only
things left unopened are the stockings
which must wait until Christmas Day.

At five on Christmas morning, Dianne
and Peggy and Kathy and Janet will
already be up, getting dressed, preparing
to go to six o’clock mass; the younger
children and their parents attend a later
one. Usually a few little Lennons perform,
because first and second-graders in the
parish are always an important part of the
service; they help tell the Christmas story.
Each of the little ones will be dressed in
robes to recite a few sentences of the age-
old tale.

And each Christmas, the Lennons re-
member little Mary, who died before the
Lennons moved to the big house in Venice,
before Dianne, Peggy, Kathy and Janet
were presented on the Lawrence Welk
Christmas show, and before there was an
icebox full of plenty at last for the family.

The tragedy occurred in the Lennon
family five years ago. It was an accident,
but that made it no less tragic. In a way,
it seemed to bring the family even closer
together . . . On a shelf in the Lennon home
stands a row of angels; each one represents
a different month and symbolizes the birth
of each of the children. January’s angel is
for Anne Madolin, February’s is for Danny
and so on throughout the calendar — the
March angel is for little Mary, who was
taken from the Lennons when she was just
sixteen months old. One moment the child
was standing in front of the house with
Bill and Sis — the next, she’d darted out
into the street in front of an on-coming car.
Sis had turned to go back in for a moment
and, just as she turned, it happened. Mary
died instantly. A special Mass of the Angels
was said for little Mary, and friends and
strangers alike offered their sympathy and
help to the family.

But some people said, “But why? If they
are so devout and have so much faith,
why did this happen to them, and
since it did, how can they still believe?”

Sis answers, “God gave her to us, there-
fore He could have her back whenever He
wanted to. He chose to take her back, that
is God’s will. We can only be thankful that
we had her as long as we did. Don’t mis-
understand me, I will never get over the
ache in my heart because of the loss of
our little girl. It was weeks, months after-
ward, before I could look at my other chil-
dren, when they walked out the front door,
without getting a sinking feeling in the pit
of my stomach, without wanting to reach
out and hold them back, but not doing it
because it would not have been the right
thing to do. Don’t you see, this feeling thal
I have is a mother’s feeling, a normal,
maternal instinct that all mothers must
feel. Faith helps, prayer helps, believing
helps, but that doesn’t mean that some-
times you don’t weaken a little and have
fear inside. To this day, if one of my chil-
dren cries out at night, while I turn on my
light and go in to see what’s wrong, I get
that gnawing feeling in the pit of my
stomach. I’m not afraid when I know what
ails them — having had so many children
I’m pretty good at spotting measles or a
touch of a cold — but when I feel a hot
forehead and can’t make out what’s wrong,
certainly I feel sick inside and continue to,
until the doctor comes and I know my
child is in no danger. This feeling I de-
scribe, it’s not a lack of faith — I mean it’s
hard to put into words — it’s not a matter
of believing or disbelieving; perhaps it’s

a human frailty to be afraid, but it happens
to all of us on occasion. You see, love
means involvement and when you are in-
volved you feel deeply and there are so
many things that can happen in the course
of an ordinary day.

“Yes, it’s a human weakness to be afraid,
but at times every one of us has fear. Some
people have said to me that, since so much
good fortune and happiness has come to
us through our girls’ fine success, this in
some way should compensate for our loss.
We have been blessed — not only by our
four older girls but by each of our chil-
dren— but happiness does not erase un-
happiness; joy doesn’t remove pain . . .
only time makes things easier to bear.
Time and faith and prayers and our be-
lief in God. You see, we are taught to be-
lieve that death is only the beginning; that
just as Christ died to be reborn, just as
He came down to die for all of us, just as
God gave us His Son, so, too, He gave us
our little Mary and then saw fit to take
her back. I can’t say that I’m not humanly
sorry or that we don’t miss her, but we
must accept those things that cannot be
changed. And we are grateful that we had
Mary for as long as we did.

Eight days after Mary died, I gave birth
to Billy. That was on July 29, in 1954.
When they told me I’d had a son, I
was very happy ... I think it might have
been a little harder if the baby had
been a girl. Yet soon after Billy, when
Mimi came along, I was so happy to have
been blessed with another little girl. . . .

“And when this past January, Annie
came to us, she brought into the house —
as each new baby does — some of our hap-
piest moments. Before I came home from
the hospital, we talked about what to name
our new little baby. I asked the girls what
they thought about calling her Mary. But
each of them shook her head and said, ‘No,
Mommy, we couldn’t call another little
baby Mary.’ Bill and I agreed; so it was
Anne Madolin . . .”

On Christmas Day, at about four in the
afternoon, the Lennons will sit down to
a ham dinner with all the trimmings. After
Daddy Bill has spoken the grace and all of
them have said their amens, they’ll begin
the feast they’d so looked forward to. And
it’s more then likely some cranberries will
spot the white table cloth and maybe a few
peas will be found under plates or on the
rug and perhaps a glass of milk will tip
over — but the chaos will only be momen-
tary, for nothing can dim the happiness and
joy of the occasion. On Christmas day,
just as throughout the rest of the year, the
Lennons are a family united by a miracle —
the miracle of faith and love.

After dinner, when the smaller ones are
in bed and the rest of the family has sung
carols and finished cups of chocolate and
eggnog, after all the presents have all been
tried on or played with and the stockings
emptied of their goodies, after each of the
children has kissed his mother and father
goodnight, Sis and Bill will remain below
for just a little while longer — maybe they’ll
sit by the fire and reminisce about their
very first Christmas together; maybe this
year they’ll talk about plans for this coming
March, because then Sis will be expecting
another child. Whatever they talk about,
you know it will be ended by their giving
thanks to God for all the wonderful bless-
ings He has bestowed upon them: For the
healthy and happy children snug in their
beds upstairs, for the one little Lennon
who will arrive soon after the New Year
and for another little Lennon named Mary
who is in Heaven but will always remain
in their hearts. . . . The End

THE LENNON SISTERS CAN BE SEEN ON THE
“LAWRENCE WELK DODGE DANCING PARTY,”
SATURDAYS, OVER ABC-TV, 9-10 P.M. EST.

MARIO LANZA

Continued from page 31

house, the youngest child, four-year-old
Mark, laughed and shouted, “It must be
a party! It must be a party!” Giannini
swept the boy up in his arms and herded
the other youngsters across the lawn and
into a side door of the four-story villa.

The chauffeur led the children into their
playroom, one of the largest of the fifteen
rooms in the Lanzas’ ground-floor apart-
ment. “How about we stay here and have
a picnic?” Carlo asked. “I’ll get Maria to
bring some cold chicken and cheese and
ham and . . .”

“. . . and ice cream,” chorused Elisse and
Damon.

“With whipped cream,” chipped in Mark.

Coleer eleven years old and the eldest
of the four Lanza children, said nothing.
She bit her lower lip, and stared at the
dark draperies drawn across the windows
that overlooked the gardens.

As Carlo left the room, six-year-old
Damon called out, “Can Mama and Papa
come to our picnic?” But the chauffeur
closed the door gently without replying.

In a few minutes, he was back, his arms
laden with food. He deposited it on a
marble table that stood in the center of the
inlaid terrazzo floor, only then noticing
that Coleen was missing.

“Where is she?” he asked. “Where is
your sister?”

The children giggled and tried not to
meet his eyes. Finally, Elisse, nine years
old, blurted out, “It’s a secret. We crossed
our hearts and hoped to die. It’s a secret
and we can’t tell.”

But Carlo didn’t wait for further explana-
tions. A gust of wind rustled the window
draperies — a window that had been closed
when they’d first come into the playroom —
and he hurried over and peered down. He
could make out photographers and re-
porters scurrying around in the darkness,
but Coleen had disappeared.

Carlo gave the alarm, and soon most of
the nine Lanza servants and some members
of the press were searching the huge
gardens with flashlights. At last they found
Coleen pressed against the wall of the
house, her fingers gripping the window
ledge outside the main room, her face
tight against the pane. She was sobbing
hysterically, and it was with great dif-
ficulty that her fingers were pried from the
sill. As Carlo lifted her into his arms, he
looked in the window. Through slightly-
parted curtains, he saw the body of Mario

Lanza, lying m the nickering light ot
four ceremonial candles.

“Papa is dead,” Coleen whispered again
and again as he carried her back into the
villa. “Papa is dead . . . Papa is dead . . .
Papa is dead.”

Alfredo Arnold Cocozza, who was later
to borrow his mother’s maiden name
and become Mario Lanza, was born on
January 31, 1921. Or was it 1925? At one
time, when Mario was'Battling with studio
officials in Hollywood, he blurted out to
the press that the publicity department
had talked him into moving his birth date
back four years. “Caruso died in 1920,” he
explained, “and I was being touted as
‘The New Caruso.’ What better way to
sell this to the public than to say that just
after the old Caruso, Enrico, died the
new Caruso, Mario, was born. It sounded
good, but it was a lie.”

To his doting parents Antonio and
Maria Cocozza, little dark-haired, cleft-
chinned Mario, their only child, was per-
fection itself. They babied, and pampered,
and spoiled him. His father, who had been
gassed in World War I and was a semi-
invalid, served his son breakfast in bed.
His mother got up at 5:30 in the morning,
to work as a seamstress in an army
quartermaster depot in Philadelphia, the
city to which the family had moved when
Mario was still an infant.

When Mario was five, he went to a
neighbor’s house and heard some Caruso
records. And from that moment on, he
had to have a phonograph of his own. So
his parents scrimped and saved and gave
him one for Christmas. After that, he’d
sit in his room alone, and play a single
Caruso record over and over again.

By the time Mario entered Philadelphia’s
Southern High, he was hopelessly spoiled.
He cut classes regularly. He fought in the
halls. He hated school and let everyone
know it. He was only happy when he was
playing football and baseball, boxing and
weight-lifting — or when he retreated to
his room and listened to his beloved
Caruso records — or when he was eating.

It was funny about eating, though. Most
of the time, he ate no more nor no less
than any other overgrown teenager (he
was almost six-feet tall and weighed close
to two hundred pounds soon after he
entered high school). But when things
went wrong — like the time he forgot the
speech he was supposed to deliver in front
of his English class and they all laughed
at him — he’d gorge himself. That time,
he’d skipped football practice and hurried
home, the laughter of his classmates still
ringing in his ears. He’d opened the ice-

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CASTS

OF CURRENT PICTURES

AREN'T WE WONDERFUL— I.G. Goldsmith.
Directed by Kurt Hoffman: Kirsten, Johanna
von Koczian; Hans Boeckel, Hansjorg Felmy;
W era, Wera Frydtberg; Bruno Tidies, Robert
Graf; Frau Mciscgeier, Elizabeth Flickenschildt;
Doddy, Ingrid Pan; Evelyne, Ingrid van Bergen;
Schally, Jurgen Gosler; Frau Haflingen, Tatjana
Sais; Frau Roselieb, Liesl Karlstadt; Herr Rose-
lieb, Michl Lang.

BEST OF EVERYTHING, THE— 20th. Di-
rected by Jean Negulesco: Caroline Bender, Hope
Lange; Mike, Stephen Boyd; Gregg, Suzy Parker;
Barbara, Martha Hyer; April, Diane Baker; Mr.
Shalimar, Brian Aherne; Amanda Farrow, Joan
Crawford; Dexter Key, Robert Evans; Eddie,
Brett Halsey; Sidney Carter, Donald Harron;
David Savage, Louis Jourdan; Mary Agnes, Sue
Carson; Jane, Linda Hutchings; Paul, Lionel
Kane; Ronnie Wood, Ted Otis; Brenda, June
Blair; Girls in Typing Pool, Alena Murray,
Rachel Stephens, Julie Payne; Scrubwoman,
Nora O’Mahony; Joe, David Hoffman; Margo
Stewart, Theodora Davitt; Bartender, John Brad-
ford; Counterman, Art Salter.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY— U.A. Directed by
David Miller: Chris Walters, David Niven; Alice
Walters, Mitzi Gaynor; Bud, Carl Reiner; Mr.
Gans, Loring Smith; Jeanette, Monique van
Vooren; Mrs. Gans, Phyllis Povah; Millie, Eliza-
beth Wilson; Debbie, Patty Duke; Okkie, Kevin
Coughlin.

HOUSE OF THE SEVEN HAWKS, THE—
M-G-M. Directed by Richard Thorpe: Johnny
Nordley, Robert Taylor; Elsa, Linda Christian;
Constanta, Nicole Maurey; Wilhelm Dekker,
David Kossoff; Anselm, Gerard Heinz; Captain
Rohner, Eric Pohlmann; Pons, Philo Hauser.

LI’L ABNER — Paramount. Directed by Melvin
Frank: LiT Abner, Peter Palmer; Daisy Mae,
Leslie Parrish; Marryin’ Sam, Stubby Kaye;
General Bullmoose , Howard St. John; Stupefyin
Jones, Julie Newmar; Appassionato von Climax,
Stella Stevens; Earthquake McGoon, Bern Hoff-
man; Mammy Yokum, Billie Hayes; Pappy Yok-
um, Joe E. Marks; Romeo Scragg, Robert
Strauss; Senator Jack S. Phogbound, Ted Thurs-
ton; Evil Eye Flcagle, A1 Nesor; Available Jones,
William Lanteau; Moonbeam McSwine, Carmen
Alvarez; Mayor Dawgmeat, Alan Carney; Hair-
less Joe, Joe Ploski; Lonesome Polecat, Diki
Lerner.

MIRACLE, THE — Warners. Directed by Irving
Rapper: Teresa, Carroll Baker; Captain Michael
Stuart, Roger Moore; Flaco, Walter Slezak;
Guido, Vittorio Gassman; La Roca, Katina Pax-
inou; Casimir, Dennis King; Cordoba, Gustavo
Rojo; Reverend Mother, Isabel Elsom; Carlitos,
Carlos Rivas; Duke of Wellington, Torin Thatch-
er; Sister Dominica, Elspeth March; Gata, Da-
ria Massey; Captain John Bolting, Lester Mat-
thews.

ON THE BEACH— U.A. Directed by Stanley
Kramer: Dwight Towers, Gregory Peck; Moira
Davidson, Ava Gardner; Julian Osborn, Fred
Astaire; Peter Holmes, Anthony Perkins; Mary
Holmes, Donna Anderson; Admiral Bridie, John
Tate; Lieutenant H osgood, Lola Brooks; David-
son, Lou Vernon; Farrel, Guy Doleman; Benson,
Ken Wayne; Swain, John Meillon; Davis, Rich-
ard Meikle; Sundstrom, Harp McGuire; Chrys-
ler, Jim Barrett.

1001 ARAB1 AN NIGHTS — Columbia. Directed
Jack Kinney: Voices — Uncle Abdul Azziz Ma-
goo, Jim Backus; Princess Yasminda, Kathryn
Grant; Aladdin, Dwayne Hickman; Wicked
Wazir, Hans Conried; Jinni of the Lamp, Her-
schel Bernardi; Omar the Rug Maker, Daws
Butler; Sultan, Alan Reed; Three Little Maids
from Damascus, Clark Sisters.

OPERATION PETTICOAT— U-I. Directed by
Blake Edwards; Admiral Matt Sherman, Cary
Grant; Lieutenant Nick Holden, Tony Curtis;
Dolores Crandall, Joan O’Brien; Barbara Dur-
ran, Dina Merrill; Molumphry , Gene Evans;
Tostin, Arthur O’Connell; Stovall, Dick Sargent;
Major Edna Howard, Virginia Gregg; Captain
J.B. Henderson, Robert F. Simon; Watson, Rob-
ert Gist; Hunkle, Gavin MacLeod; Prophet,
George Dunn; Harmon, Dick Crockett; Colfax,
Madlyn Rhue; Reid, Marion Ross; Ramon, Clar-
ence E. Lung; Dooley, Frankie Darro; Fox,
Tony Pastor, Jr.

— 30- Warners. Directed by Jack Webb: Sam

Gatlin, Jack Webb; Jim Bathgate, William Con-
rad; Earl Collins, David Nelson; Peggy Gatlin,
Whitney Blake; Bernice Valentine, Louise Lori-
mer; Ben Quinn, James Bell; Jan Price, Nancy
Valentine; Hy Shapiro, Joe Flynn; Carl Thomp-
son, Richard Bakalyan; Fred Kendall, Dick
Whittinghill ; Ron Danton, John Nolan; Lucille

box and started eating, shelf by shelf,
though the food was cold. Then he went to
his own room, turned on the phonograph
full blast to drown out everything, and lis-
tened to his favorite Caruso recording. At
the climax of the aria, he sang along with
the great tenor, and for a moment he was
Caruso. In his imagination, he saw the
faces of his classmates — the same class-
mates who had laughed and sneered at
him that afternoon — but now they were
entranced, and their faces looked up at
him with admiration and awe.

But that’s not what happened. Two
months before graduation, he was
walking from history class to his
homeroom, when he heard two fellows
in back of him say the word “fat.” In blind
fury, he turned around and tried to fight
them both at once. An hour later, he stood
beside them in the principal’s office.
Through bleeding lips, the two boys in-
sisted they had done nothing, said nothing,
to him. He knew better. But that made
no difference: He was expelled.

He soon settled down to a regular
routine. He’d sleep late. His dad would
serve him breakfast in bed. He’d listen
to records until lunch. In the afternoon,
he’d wander downtown to a record store
and look through the new stock of operatic
selections. He’d take a few albums into
a little booth, close the door, put a record
on the turntable, shut his eyes, and listen.
If the vocalist was male, and if he was a
good singer, Mario would play the record
until he knew it almost by heart. Then
he’d sing along. And there in the booth
he’d be singing, he’d be the star on the
record, he’d be showing everybody that
Mario Lanza was really somebody.

One day, he was home alone in his
room, listening to his favorite Caruso aria,
“Vesti la Giubba,” from Leoncavallo’s “I
Pagliacci,” and singing along as usual. His
door was open and he didn’t hear his
father come into the house. Then, all of a
sudden, his dad burst through his door,
threw his arms around him, and kissed
him on both cheeks. “Bravo,” he hollered,
“bravo, bravissimo.”

That night, Anthony told Maria what
had happened. She listened quietly until
he had finished, and then said with a smile,
“I know. I’ve known since he was twelve.
I heard ... he didn’t know I heard . . .
him singing an aria from ‘The Girl from
the Golden West.’ That day . . . that day
I heard him sing ... I knew what Heaven
was like. It was too good to be true. I had
tears in my eyes. But I couldn’t tell him.
You know how sensitive Mario is . . . how
people frighten him. How he hides in that
room. But now . . . now it is time. Time
for him to sing.”

Somehow, Maria and Anthony managed
to get together enough money to send
Mario to Irene Williams, a Philadelphia
voice teacher. For three years, she gave
the youngster a voice lesson every other
day. She was convinced he had a great
voice. But he was lazy and spoiled. He
wanted to be a sensation immediately,
without work. Sometimes, he’d come for
his two o’clock lesson still rubbing the
sleep from his eyes, and he’d plead, “I
don’t feel like vocalizing today. Can’t we
just sing?”

When something went wrong, when
she’d chide him for not practicing enough,
he’d pout and sulk like a hurt child.

But around this time, Mario’s grand-
father, a wholesale grocer and trucker,
stepped into the picture. He insisted
that the boy go to work on one of his
trucks. So, at twenty-one, Mario Lanza
had a job for the first time in his life, a
job that lasted just ten days. On the tenth
day, he helped deliver a piano to the
Philadelphia Academy of Music, where

Serge Koussevitsky was conducting the
Boston Symphony Orchestra. Mario hung
around until after the concert was over
and then he hid right next to Koussevit-
sky’s dressing room. As soon as the
maestro had closed his door, Mario began
to sing at the top of his lungs and, of
course, the aria was “Vesti la Giubba.”
Half dressed, Koussevitsky rushed from his
dressing room to see who was making such
magnificent noise, and found Mario. The
conductor grabbed the singer, kissed him
on both cheeks, and said, “There’s no
question about it. You’re the greatest
natural tenor since Caruso. You’ll have to
come and sing at the Berkshire Festival.”

Mario went, he sang, he conquered.
One New York critic went into ecstasies
over “Lanza’s superb natural voice.” The
“New Caruso” was born.

Back again, in Philadelphia, Mario and
the whole Cocozza family visited a pizzeria
to celebrate. His music teacher, Irene
Williams, who was there of course, was
amazed and horrified to see Mario wolf
down twenty-five dollars worth of pizza
pies.

Uncle Sam put a brief stop to his career,
but not to his eating. He was the first in
chow line and the last to leave the mess
hall. He ballooned up to 300 pounds. His
GI buddies, in typical army fashion, gave
him the nickname “The Mouth” — and they
weren’t referring to his singing ability.

After his medical discharge from the
service, for the unglamorous ailment of
post-nasal drip, he married Betty Hicks,
the sister of one of his GI buddies, and
headed for New York and fame.

And success came quickly. In 1947, he
appeared at the Hollywood Bowl, and
among the thousands of people who ap-
plauded, when he sang an aria from
“Andre Chenier,” was Louis B. Mayer,
head of M-G-M. Within a few days, Mayer
had signed Lanza to a seven-year contract,
with a ten-thousand dollar bonus for just
signing his name. Mario had heard ap-
plause and he loved it. Why work and
strive for years to prepare for an operatic
career?

But he was so scared at the thought
of going before the cameras for his first
picture, “That Midnight Kiss,” that he
ate steadily for a month and puffed up to
300 pounds again. That’s when the studio
laid down the law, and he went on the
first of his many “crash” diets, whittling
down to 169 pounds. He kept his weight
down during the week, but over a week-
end, he’d gain twenty or thirty pounds and
would have to lose the excess poundage
before shooting could start again.

But somehow the picture was made and
Mario Lanza achieved an instantane-
ous success beyond his wildest dreams.
His two semi-classical arias, “Be My Love”
and “The Loveliest Night of the Year,”
sold over a million copies each, in just
one year. Mario was on the top of the
world.

Then he began to hate the studio that
forced him to lose weight, that told him
wide screens required thin heroes. One
day, when he was doing his best to eat
everything in the M-G-M commissary, a
studio official walked up to him and said
that he’d just have to stop, that he was
destroying himself. Mario continued chew-
ing, as he looked up and said, “Why should
I stop — I’ll die before I’m forty.”

But one thing did make him stop: The
chance to play the role of Enrico Caruso
in “The Great Caruso.” He hid out in a
ranch for six weeks. For forty-two days,
pounds melted off until he was thin
enough to play the young Caruso. In six
weeks, he’d gone from 240 pounds to a
svelte 184, and the picture was made on
schedule.

The public’s reaction to the film was un-

precedented. In a record-smashing, ten-
week run at New York’s Radio City Music
Hall, men, women and children paid more
than a million and a half dollars to see
and hear Mario Lanza. From that one pic-
ture alone, he was eventually to make
over five million dollars from his share of
the box-office receipts and recording roy-
alties. In the year 1951, Mario Lanza was
Mr. Show Business. He had no place to
go, but up. The skies, the heavens them-
selves, seemed within his reach.

Then everything started to slip through
his fingers. He said that the script for his
next picture, “Because You’re Mine,” was
flimsy and not worthy of his great talent.
So he again drowned himself in food and
shot up to 250 pounds. The studio de-
livered an ultimatum: lose 40 pounds or
else. He ranted, he raved and smashed a
hundred phonograph records one after-
noon. One moment he’d be screaming, the
next he’d be sobbing, “I’m a big baby. All
great singers are big babies. Caruso was
a big baby, too.”

The picture was held up eleven days
until the star shed the required poundage,
and when it was finally released, the pub-
lic and critics both disliked it. For Mario
Lanza, this was a lethal blow. People were
laughing at him, he thought. In his mind,
this one failure wiped out all the success
he had achieved.

Then, when he refused to diet for “The
Student Prince,” the studio replaced him
with Edmund Purdom, and brought suit
against him for $5,000,000. The suit was
settled, when he agreed to do the record-
ings for the picture: out of Purdom’s
mouth came Lanza’s voice. But this
marked the end of the contract between
Mario and M-G-M.

He declared he was happy to be free.
“Whoever heard of a skinny tenor?” he
asked. “They made me get down to 169
pounds. At that weight, I could kill people.
I get edgy. I throw things . . . Now that I
am free, I will really sing.”

But he didn’t sing. He’d brood all night,
plotting revenge against his enemies,
and sleep all day. He was gruff with
his four children, whom he loved dearly,
and edgy towards his wife, whom he
adored. He’d disappear from home for
days, and come back looking as if he’d
journeyed through hell. He owed the
government $300,000 in back taxes. He was
hounded by creditors and plagued by
process-servers. The man who’d made
millions, was broke.

Then, late in 1954, the tide seemed to
change. Millions of people throughout the
United States, tuned in their TV sets to
hear and see Mario Lanza on the “Shower
of Stars.” The verdict: Mario was plump,
yes; but he sang better than ever. Tele-
grams swamped CBS’s office: More Lanza.
Then, the next day, the whole nation was
shocked. Mario hadn’t really sung at all.
He’d merely moved his lips while record-
ings he’d made three years ago supplied
the sound. In the process of going from
315 pounds to 250 pounds in just two
weeks, he’d just become too weak to sing —
too weak and too scared.

Another hope for a comeback flickered
in the form of a long engagement at $50,000
a week, in Las Vegas’ New Frontier Hotel.
But he simply locked himself in his room
and wouldn’t appear. He’d never conquered
his stage fright.

This was the end of Mario Lanza’s
career in the United States. But he had
one last chance — Italy. In Rome, he cut
his weight down to 185, and threw him-
self into his work — movies, European con-
certs, public appearances, and record dates.
“My career is just starting,” he announced.
"Don’t forget, I’m a tenor and we don’t
reach our prime until about forty. The way
I feel now, I can go on forever.”

But fear and gluttony still followed him.
Before making “The Seven Hills of Rome,”
he weighed 280 pounds, and in forcing him
to keep on a diet, the producers had to
lock him in his room at night. He can-
celled concerts right and left, pleading ill-
ness. But the Italian people loved him
anyway, and Mario Lanza was on the way
back.

In 1959, he signed to do four movies, and
signed TV, recording and public appear-
ance contracts that would bring him
some $2,000,000 over the following two
years. But, in late summer, he fell ill
with bronchial pneumonia and received
more than 140 injections of antibiotics in
one week. Six weeks later, he was back
in Valle Giulia Hospital for a “complete
physical check-up and to lose some
weight.”

He lost more than fifty pounds in ten
days, even though he managed to bribe
the hospital barber into smuggling him in
some food. He felt fine and was eager to
get home to Betty and the children.

On Tuesday night, October 6th, Mario
Lanza broke still another hospital rule by
inviting the Valle Giulia nurses and clinic
staff to hear him sing. They all stood in
the corridor outside room 404 and lis-
tened to him for hours. Finally, he sang
one last song, an aria from “Tosca” that
ends with the words, “I never loved life
so well.”

The following day, just before noon,
Mario was visited by his good friend and
personal physician, Dr. Frank Silvestri.
The singer talked excitedly about the
comeback of the Brooklyn Dodgers in the
National League. “And they say no one
can come back!” He laughed. Then rou-
tinely, the doctor took Mario’s blood pres-
sure, and left the room.

A few minutes past noon. Dr. Silvestri
returned. Mario Lanza was lying very still
on the bed. The doctor did everything pos-
sible to revive him, but the great singer
was dead.

Little Coleen Lanza sat dry-eyed next to
her mother and her sister and brothers
in Rome’s Church of the Immaculate
Heart of Mary. In the main aisle, her
father’s coffin was flanked by tall candles
and potted palms, and rested on a cata-
falque draped in black and gold. Among
the flowers, she saw the wreaths that she
had helped Mama pick out. She heard
their old friend Father Paul Maloney, who
had baptized her and her brothers and
sister, say nice things about Papa. But all
this meant nothing; nothing had mattered
since that second she’d peeped through
the window and seen her father’s dead
body lying in the main room of the villa.

Nothing mattered until she heard her
brother Damon whisper to her mother,
“Mama, I want to be happy like Daddy
and go to Heaven.” Her eyes filled with
tears and she reached over and grasped
her brother’s hand. “Take care of each
other,” Papa had always said. And now
that mattered — what Papa had said mat-
tered, what Papa had been mattered, what
Papa had done mattered. Papa had loved
his family, Papa had loved life. That
mattered. — JAE LYLE

HEAR MARIO LANZA ON THE RCA VICTOR LABEL.

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CITY STATE I

DEBBIE

Continued from page 21

The large rectangular room at 20th Cen-
tury-Fox was completely jammed. Above
the long lines of tables, every light in the
commissary blazed. As people entered,
they had to squeeze their way down the
aisles, past the extra tables that had been
added, to find the places allotted to them.
The noise was deafening. Everyone was
talking at once. Heads turned often to the
doorway to see who would be next to ar-
rive. Surprisingly, Marilyn Monroe — so fa-
mous for being late — was one of the first
this time.

The occasion was Hollywood’s luncheon-
reception for the Soviet Premier Nikita
Khrushchev. Invitations were scarce, and
the people who’d been invited were like a
Who’s Who of the film colony. They came
early and waited patiently for the high-
light of the afternoon — Khrushchev’s
speech.

A few were aware that another type of
drama was to be played out. They waited
for two people to appear in that doorway:
Liz Taylor and Eddie Fisher. This would
be the first time Liz, Eddie and Debbie
would be together since the breakup of the
Fisher marriage. And people tried to guess
how Debbie Reynolds would feel when Liz
and Eddie walked in.

But it did not turn out exactly as they’d
thought it would. Liz and Eddie arrived
first. They paused briefly in the doorway
to get their bearings and to scan the room
for their table.

Liz wore a plum-colored crepe dress, cut
to a deep V at the front, with a small
black-mist hat, which you could barely
see, to complete the costume. She looked
relaxed and happy. But some people
thought she looked a little tired. There
were slight rings under her eyes and,
though she had been on a diet, she was
still heavier than the last time Hollywood
had seen her. That had been nearly a year
ago, when Liz had hurried off to Las Vegas
to be with Eddie, while he waited out the
few weeks of his quickie divorce from
Debbie. Then, after a hasty wedding, they
had left together for Europe, where Liz
worked and Eddie waited. They remained
there until a few weeks ago, when they
flew to Las Vegas. Eddie’s California di-
vorce was still not final and, in that state,
Liz was not yet his legal wife. But they
had flown in from Las Vegas for this
luncheon because, as Eddie, who’s very
much in love with Liz, explained, Liz was
anxious to be there; she’d seen Khrush-
chev once before when she and Mike Todd
had visited Russia.

Liz spotted their table — one at the back
of the room — and then whispered some-
thing to Eddie. Eddie patted her hand,
smiled encouragingly and, taking her arm,
led her off to their table. It was not one of
the top tables. At best, Khrushchev could
be seen only in profile. As soon as they
were seated, Eddie ordered drinks from
the waiter. Liz just sat there, staring
straight ahead and fidgeting with one of
her big gold-hoop earrings.

Debbie — contrary to what everyone had
expected — had not been there to see
the two of them arrive. She arrived
almost twenty minutes after their entrance.
She arrived alone. She wore a smart dress
and looked chic— a definite change in Deb-
bie is her interest in clothes now. She
knows what is most becoming to her, and
dresses with more confidence.

But, before she could enter the room, a
studio publicist ran over to her and said,
“Liz and Eddie are here.” Debbie merely

said, “It doesn’t matter. Why should that
matter?”

And then she started across the room,
past many curious eyes, to her seat at pro-
ducer Sam Engel’s table, and only three
tables away from where Khrushchev him-
self sat. She sat down directly opposite
Gary Cooper, and looked at the Soviet
Premier as he sat at the head table, smil-
ing, nodding, speaking, through his hand-
some interpreter, to Spyros Skouras.

Liz kept turning her head, but she
couldn’t see Khrushchev, who had begun
his speech now. Finally, she kicked off her
shoes and climbed up on top of the table
for a better look. Debbie did not turn
around. She sat there, listening to the
speech, and she seemed completely at
peace with herself and with the world.

A few people remarked that she looked
as if she were used to everything by now
— as if she could handle anything— and
they couldn’t understand it until a friend
of Debbie’s told them what Debbie had
confided in her. She said the change in
Debbie had begun in Spain, while she was
making the movie, “It Started With a
Kiss.” She said that this was where Debbie
had found herself — her identity as a per-
son— at last. It was all because of a dance,
she said . . .

It happened one night in Granada, when
a group of the people working on “Kiss,”
went to the gypsy caves outside the town
to see the dances. Debbie sat with her
friend, Camille Williams, and with Gus-
tavo Roio, the handsome young Spaniard
in the picture, beating her hands in rhythm
as the dancers whirled to the guitars and
tambourines in the great white-washed
cave. But even as she clapped time along
with the others, Debbie seemed preoc-
cupied— as if she wasn’t really there.

A whole family sat in chairs in the long
hall, grandmothers, grandchildren, uncles,
aunts and cousins, mothers and fathers,
lovers, teenagers; and, one by one, they’d
whirl into the dance. There were solos and
duets, two gypsy girls danced together,
their black eyes flashing, their black hair
swinging and shining in the candlelight,
and then a seven-year-old boy stamped
out onto the floor. He, too, danced while
everyone clapped out the rhythm.

And, then, the family insisted that the
visitors dance for them. Guitars and
tambourines kept up the flamenco
music and first Camille, then Gustavo,
arose to dance. Debbie sat there for a mo-
ment, when it was her turn, looking un-
certain, but the music — and the mood of
the place — had caught her up in their spell.
And finally, she stood up, taking a few
hesitant steps toward the center of the
floor of the cave. Then, in the light of the
sputtering, stubby candles, she began to
dance — first slowly, almost awkwardly, as
if she were afraid she would break, shatter
something within her. But after a while,
she was whirling about, her hair flying,
her heels clicking, and she looked as if
she’d found she could fly — as if she were
suddenly freed from some dark cage.

Before that dance — that moment of com-
plete, abandoned joy — she’d been feeling

PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS

Pat Boone color by Topix; Annette and Paul Anka
color by Topix; Mario Lanza by Phil Bure hman;
Janet Leigh and Tony Curtis Courtesy of Columbia
("Who Was That Lady?"); Doris Day color cour-
tesy of Universal-International ("Pillow Talk ).

tired and spent. There’d been so many de-
cisions, so many questions flung at her — so
much emotional turmoil to live through
and be brave about.

But now, suddenly, it was as if some
rock of oppression had been lifted. She was
free. She was a person in her own right,
for the first time in her life . . . She’d
never — not in her whole life — been just
Debbie. She’d always been somebody’s
daughter or somebody’s wife. Now she
seemed to see there was something more.
These Spanish people, who didn’t even
know her, were laughing and clapping.
Their dark eyes were warm and friendly
and admiring. They liked her — really liked
her — She wasn’t poor, brave Debbie to
them. They knew nothing about all that.
They liked her for herself!

To Debbie, this was headier than wine.
It was as though some too-tight band
around her heart had snapped. It was the
beginning of new happiness, of a new life,
a life she’d never dreamed possible.

“And that night in Granada did begin a
new life for her,” the woman said.

The other people looked over at Debbie,
and a man said, “Yes — she’s so different.
It’s as if she has a big wonderful secret.”

“I told you,” Debbie’s friend said, “she’s
found herself.”

Of course, Debbie did not hear the
people whispering about her, or — if she
did — she gave no indication of it.
When the reception was over, she stood up
and, since she was near the door, she left
before Eddie and Liz — about ten minutes
before they did.

Since then, Liz has been back in Holly-
wood once or twice on business. It’s taken
for granted that the three will eventually
meet face to face one day, but no fireworks
are expected. Eddie is so devoted and in
love with Liz, he couldn’t care less what
Debbie does or doesn’t do. Not in an un-
kind sense. But as the beatniks say — “She’s
gone, man. Like way out.”

And Debbie is fair. Recently, she sent
the two children up to Las Vegas to be
with Eddie a few days. She has said it’s all
over — and it is. She’s making her own life
now and wants no sad tears for her. She
doesn’t need them. As for the town — it ex-
pects no further fireworks among these
three. But, then, maybe they could be
wrong. —MARY CULVER

don’t MISS DE3BIE IN PARAMOUNT’S “THE RAT

race” and “the gazebo,” for m-g-m. hear

DEBBIE SING ON THE DOT LABEL. LIZ CAN BE

seen in Columbia’s “suddenly last summer.”

LISTEN FOR EDDIE ON THE RCA VICTOR LABEL

RICK NELSON

Continued from page 49

part of the beach. I stood up. A tall,
tanned, good-looking boy came running
toward me. I took one look, then looked
again.

I gulped. “Aren’t you Rick Nelson?”

He smiled, then shyly put his head down,
answering simply, “Yes, I am.”

For a moyient, he hesitated; then he
turned around and started to sprint back
to the game. But before he got two steps
away, the latest Elvis Presley record hap-
pened to come on and Rick came back He
stood real close to the radio so he could
listen. When it was over, he still stood
there. Then: “Man, he’s the greatest!” he
said.

And we discovered we were both Pres-
ley fans. Then, when I told Rick I knew
Elvis, that I’d met him two years ago, he
got really interested. “What’s he like?” he
asked. “How’d you meet him?”

Rick and I were real pals before he left
to go back to the game. He’d invited
me and my sister Mary Jo over the
next night to listen to his record collec-
tion, and I’d promised to bring some of my
own records along, too.

From that moment on, what had always
seemed like a huge, big world, became a
small one for me. I mean, my family and
I had been listening and watching “The
Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet” for
years, and we’d always known that the
beautiful house, perched on the cliff at La-
guna, was the Nelsons’ summer home. But,
although I’d been living down there prac-
tically all my life, this was the first time
I’d bumped into Rick. I saw him many
times after that; he was a nice boy — but he
sure did change. Mary Jo and I went over
and met Mr. and Mrs. Nelson and listened
to records the next night and the night
after that. We heard his first record, “I’m
Walkin’ ” and “Teenager’s Romance,” and
I told him it was great.

“But not like Elvis,” he said, and we
smiled.

After that, all during the rest of the
summer, I kept bumping into Rick at the
beach and we’d talk about what we wanted

to do with our lives, and we’d go swim-
ming or have a Coke; always there’d be a
group of us together and always it would
be a ball — never anything romantic, never
dates or anything like that — just fun stuff.
But sometimes I thought, gee, here he is
sixteen and he’s got a hit record and I
don’t even know what I want to do with
my life, and I’d feel sad. By August, Rick’s
first record had zoomed to the top and he’d
been booked for his first personal appear-
ance as a recording artist. Just a few days
before he left to go to Ohio, I saw him
and wished him luck. Then, when we said
goodbye, he told me that if my sister and I
ever got to Hollywood, to be sure to drop
by the house.

Well, I thought to myself, that’ll never
happen. But I’d forgotten that it was a
small world, after all. Ten months later,
the world shrunk a little more. I knew
what I wanted to do with my life; I knew
where I fitted in. Ten months later, I wrote
“Poor Little Fool,” which was to become
my passport to Hollywood.

I remember I’d just made a demo record
of it and brought it over to Rick’s house
in Laguna. He’d just finished a recording
session and had been sitting around talk-
ing shop with two of the musicians who
back him up. But by the time I got there,
Rick started talking about some of the
crazy things that had happened to him.

“You know,” he said, “the darnedest
thing happened to me the other day.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, you know that big dent in my
car?”

Everybody knew.

“You’ll never believe what happened.
Last week I was in Music City buying
some records — I’ll play ’em for you in a
minute — and I’d just gotten out of my car,
when a man came peddling down the
street on a bicycle; honestly, Shari, he
must have been going sixty miles an hour
. . . Well, all of a sudden, he peddled right
into my car, the impact was tremendous!
But afterward, he just picked himself up,
brushed off his clothes, got back on the
bike and rode away. He and his bike were
completely okay— not a scratch, but when
I walked back to look at the car, I almost
keeled over. He’d dented in the whole side.
You saw it, you know. And the horrible
thing is, I didn’t even get his license num-
ber. Imagine — a hit-and-run bike rider!”

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Please Print

STREET

CITY STATE

For a moment, we all sat there, speech-
less. Then I said, “Golly, what did your
father say?”

Rick shook his head. “What could he
say? It’s unbelievable!”

And then we began to laugh. That was
it — it was unbelievable — who ever heard of
a bike going sixty-miles an hour!

But Rick wouldn’t admit it was a joke.
He followed it up with another story. “Do
you know what happened just yesterday
afternoon?”

“No,” we said, letting down our guard
again. “What happened?”

“Well, I was just walking down Sunset
Boulevard, minding my own business. It
was kind of hot and I was tired, so I sat
down on the library steps to rest a while.
Then, while I was sitting there, I saw a
man walking by, and he was dragging a
string behind him. At first, I didn’t think
he had anything on the end of it, just the
string, you know? But then, when I looked
real hard, I saw that there was something.
At the end of the string, he had a little
beetle. Well, I couldn’t move. I just sat
there and watched as he walked by with
this beetle on a leash — like people would
walk their dogs. I thought to myself, this
man’s crazy, and then do you know what
he did? He stopped and pulled the beetle
up close to him, took a bottle of Coke out
of a bag and gave that little beetle a drink.
Then they walked on down the street . . .”

“Aw, Rick,” I said, “come on now, what
kind of a story is that?”

But he said, “Honest, Shari — would I kid
you?”

And I looked at those big, blue eyes, and
I said, “Yes.” Then we all laughed, and
Rick went over to the turntable and put
on the new records he’d gotten at Music
City — that part of his story was true!

We sat there listening to the records and
all I could think about was asking him to
play mine, and how he’d like it once he’d
played it. I’d written it just for him. He
had exactly the right kind of singing style
for it.

Finally, I got up enough nerve to ask
him to put it on, and then, after it was
over, nobody said anything. Rick just put
it back on the turntable, and after it came
to an end the second time, he put it back
on again. At last, he turned to me and
smiled. “I like it,” he said. “I think I’ll slip
it in with my next album and record it.”
“Rick! You’re kidding!”

“Honest, Shari,” he said, “would I kid
you?”

“Yes,” I said. But he wasn’t kidding.
He’s got a gold record for “Poor Little
Fool” to prove it — and so have I.

And I did get to go to Hollywood, after
all, and write more songs, and watch Rick
as he worked and came up higher and
higher toward the top. I’ll never forget the
day I went over to Rick’s house to dis-
cover he’d taken up bull-fighting. He had a
dozen books on it, half a dozen albums of
authentic bullfighting music, and then he
showed me how he’d rigged up the back-
yard like an arena.

“You be the bull,” he said, shoving the
practice bull at me and pulling on his
toreador outfit, “and be a brave one.”

I looked at the horns on the practice bull
and I said, “Gee — no — you’ll get hurt on
these things.” He didn’t even bother an-
swering, and after we started, I saw that I
couldn’t possibly have hurt him — I never
saw anyone move so fast.

Every time he yelled “Toro!” I wheeled
the practice bull toward him, and he’d
twirl the cape and I’d miss him by a mile.

After a while, I wanted to try it the
other way around. He’d made his part look
so easy. “You be the bull,” I said, “and I’ll
fight you.” But when I took the cape from
him, it was so heavy, I couldn’t even hold
it — let alone twirl it!

That’s a thing Rick has — he practices
until whatever he’s doing looks simple as
child’s play. Like the time before he went
on location to make “Rio Bravo.” Every
spare minute, he was practicing with the
guns. Since he had the part of a young
gunslinger, he was going to be one, for
real.

There were targets set up all over the
place, and then he wanted me to pre-
tend to have a shoot-out with him.
He showed me how ... I drew an imagi-
nary gun with my fingers, while he drew
against me with a real six-shooter, and
even my imagination was slower than his
reality! He’d shout, “Draw!” and before I
could raise my hand from my side, he al-
ready had his gun out of his holster.

“Boy, Shari, you’d have been a dead
duck, if this had been for real,” he said
shaking his head.

The only time I’ve ever seen Rick mad,
for real, is when someone insults the girl
he’s with. Then he’ll get angry — but never
in defense of himself. I remember, once, a
group of us were in his car. There were
two other girls besides myself, and a bud-
dy of Rick’s, and we were at a drive-in
restaurant. Well, while we were waiting
for our order, the others went across the
street to a drugstore to buy something.
Rick and I were sitting there by ourselves,
when a bunch of guys — there must have
been six of them and they all looked like
first-string football tackles — came over to
the car, and, out of the clear blue sky,
started making snide remarks to Rick.

They kept on saying awful things, and
Rick just sat there and took it. But his fists
were clenched and I knew he was having a
hard time controlling himself. Then, one of
the guys leaned down, stuck his face in
the window and put his sticky hands all
over the car.

Rick turned to look him square in the
face. “Get your hands off my car,” he said,
his voice quiet with authority.

The guy just laughed.

“I’m warning you — just get away from
the car,” Rick said.

The guy laughed again, and it wasn’t a
pretty laugh to hear.

Then Rick turned to me and said, “Ex-
cuse me, Shari,” and he opened the car
door and started getting out of the car.

The guys took one look at his set, deter-
mined face, and all six of them started to
back up; then, as casually as they could,
they drifted away. I think it was his calm-
ness, his complete control of the situation,
that made them change their minds and let
us alone.

Anyway, when I wanted to say some-
thing about it to the other kids when they
came back, and the waitress had brought
us our hamburgers, Rick wouldn’t let me.
“Never mind, Shari,” he said gruffly to hide
anything he felt, “let’s don’t talk about it.
It was nothing.”

Nothing? It sure was something. Every-
thing about Rick is something to think ex-
tra hard about. He’s quite a guy. He sure
has changed since I first met him. He was
a nice guy then — but now he’s grown-up —
matured. And he’s even nicer. You have to
get up awfully early in the morning to get
the best of him. And you know what? I’m
awfully glad my sister got me up early
that morning to go to the beach — maybe
I’d never have met him, if she hadn’t. And,
believe me, ever since that volley ball
bounced off me that day, knowing Rick
has been a real ball!

— as told to MARCIA BORIE

SEE RICK IN “the WACKIEST SHIP IN THE
ARMY” FOR COLUMBIA. HE CAN BE SEEN ON
WEDNESDAYS, ABC-TV, 8:30-9:00 P.M. EST, IN
“THE ADVENTURES OF OZZIE AND HARRIET.”
RICK ALSO RECORDS ON THE IMPERIAL LABEL.

INGRID BERGMAN

Continued jrom page 22

let her alone. One young reporter moved
in closer to her. “Is it true you’re preg-
nant?” he asked; his words seemed to hit
her squarely, and she caught her breath.

For a moment, she stood there, unable
to move; then she pushed her way through
the reporters and ducked into the waiting
car. But the reporters followed in taxis
and press-cars, and they were waiting for
her at the courthouse. The car had
stopped, but she simply sat there in it,
staring at the reporters with mute appeal.
Then, slowly, she got out and started up
those steps. On the last step, she faltered.
The wind blew her hair across her eyes,
and she pushed it away. Then, for the first
time, she spoke.

“What do you want of me?” she cried.

And suddenly she could bear no more.
With her head down, she blindly nudged
her way through — past all the curious eyes,
the insulting whispers and loud mutterings
— into the courtroom, to stand beside
Roberto Rossellini. He did not look at
her, when she stood beside him. He was
looking into the face of the child he held,
their child, Robertino. And she looked
at Robertino, too, as if she wondered if
the trouble would ever be over, even after
today’s humiliation. Yet Robertino was a
happy child. None of the frowning or
finger-pointing touched him. She smiled
a little as she looked at him.

Then the voices in the courtroom must
have reached her again, for she stopped
smiling. The voices pressed in on her,
making her feel, again, the weight of this
day and of all the days that had come
before it. Her coat was oppressively warm
for the heat of the room, but she seemed
too weak to remove it. Her brown pocket-
book hung heavily from its strap on her
shoulder. She reached back to the railing
behind her, as if for support, and suddenly
looked as though she wanted to scream.
She had touched another hand. Drawing
hers back, she held it tight against her
body as if it had been burned. Then she
turned to see whose hand she had touched,
only to find herself looking into a face not
two inches from her own. She stepped
back so quickly, she almost fell. But still
Roberto did not reach out to help her.

Then she looked back at the man. Obvi-
ously, he was another reporter. His hat
was clamped firmly to his head and the
little white press card jutted familiarly
out of his hat-band. But there was some-
thing different about this man: His eyes
looked apologetic, almost sympathetic, and
he did not hurl questions at her as the
others had done. He simply stood there,
looking into her face, in silence. He looked
at Roberto’s stern, closed profile, at the
rigid line of his shoulders, and at the child.
Then, looking back at her, he took off his
hat with a kind of awkward grace, and
started to speak.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said,
“but may I ask you just one question?”
“What is it?” she whispered.

And he said, “Tell me, if you were given
a second chance — if you had it to do all
over again — what would you do?”

She started to turn away, but then she
turned back and said, “What else could I
have done? I love Roberto. I will always
love Roberto.”

Roberto had not heard her, or if he had,
he did not show it in any way; not by a
flicker of the eyelids did he show it.

“After all this?” the reporter asked, un-
believing. He waved his hand at the
crowded courtroom, indicating the curious
bystanders, the other reporters and pho-

tographers and the child in Roberto’s arms.

Slowly, her eyes took in everything
around her. She saw the white-haired old
ladies in their best dresses of rusty black,
their coats or shawls spread over the backs
of their chairs, or on their ample laps; the
teenage boys in leather jackets sprawled
in their seats; the young girls sitting for-
ward and chattering with each other; the
men and women with their children
around them; and all of them waiting, as
though it were a play. How difficult it
would be for any of them to understand
how lonely she was — how lonely she had
always been.

From the time she was two, when her
mother died, she’d been denied any real
affection. She’d been taught by her father
and spinster aunt, never to show how
she felt about anything. They had made
it plain that there was no time, no place,
for love and affection. It had been the
same when her father and aunt died and
she’d gone to live with her uncle Otto’s
family, all of whom were strangers. She
was twelve then, and the only time she’d
been almost happy, was when she was
playing at make-believe. As her loneli-
ness grew, so did her desire to act, and
so she enrolled in drama school when she
was seventeen. It was there she met Peter
Lindstrom, the man she married and came
to Hollywood with. But all this time, her
restless, lonely search went on. Peter was
much as her father and aunt and uncle had
been— he believed one must never show
one’s emotions. It was what she had done
until she got to know Roberto. She fell
in love, deeply; she knew it would never
end. She was willing to give up everything
else for that love — something she had
searched for all her life. . . .

Turning back to the reporter, she smiled
a little, though her bottom lip trembled.
“I love him,” she repeated. “I will always
love Roberto.”

That was February, 1950— ten years ago—
when Roberto and Ingrid were in court
to register the birth of their first child.
Now it was 1959. Ingrid Bergman was
in Rome again. She walked into the court-
room with such simple dignity, that even
the reporters stepped back for her to pass.
In her soft white-wool coat she moved
down the crowded aisle to stand once more
with Roberto, to plead once more with the
President of the court. She did not show
the ten years she’d lost. There were no
lines of bitterness in her face. But she
did not look at Roberto when she stood
beside him. She stared straight ahead.

Then the President of the court was
ready to hear their case. “Now, Senora —
Schmidt, is it now?” The President pushed
his glasses down on his nose and peered
over them.

She nodded, but she was clutching her
handkerchief into a tight ball.

“May we hear what it is you have to say
regarding the question of custody — perma-
nent custody — for these children.” He bent
to read from the mountain of documents
before him. “Robertino, Isotta-Ingrid and
Isabella are their names. Is that right?”

Again she nodded. Then she cleared her
throat and said softly, “Mr. Rossellini does
not comprehend these things. ... A child
belongs with his mother.”

“And you would be a good mother?”

“I — yes, of course. I love them. I am
their mother, after all.” It seemed almost
as if she could not believe this was hap-
pening, even though she stood there facing
the President of the court; even though
she must hear the spectators fidgeting and
coughing behind her; even though she
must sense Roberto’s standing beside her.
From the expression of pain on her face,
it looked as if she were asking herself:
How could Roberto do this, if he ever
loved me? They are my children. . . .

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The President locked away from her.
lowering his eyes to the papers before him.
Then he looked up at her again. “You
state, through your attorneys, that there
were other women for Senor Rossellini —
that there was one in particular?”

The courtroom was suddenly hushed.
People leaned forward to catch her an-
swer.

But all she said was, “Yes,” her voice
scarcely more than a whisper. Then she
closed her eyes and swayed a little. She
did not need to answer, not really. Every-
one in the room had seen the headlines,
read the stories about Roberto Rossellini
and the other woman in India. They all
knew how these things had humiliated
and stunned the woman before them, who
now fought for the only thing left of her
impetuous marriage to Roberto: her chil-
dren.

“And yet,” the President was saying,
“on this other paper, Senor Rossellini ac-
cuses you — ”

“It is not true!” She bit her lip.

What Roberto’s cross-complaint said
was, that for Ingrid, there had been an-
other man, too — that she had known her
present husband, Lars Schmidt, too well
before she ceased being Ingrid Rossellini.
“Mr. Rossellini knows it is not true!” She
broke off and then she whispered, “All I
ask is that my children, now residing with
Mr. Rossellini, be returned to me, their
mother.”

Now Roberto interrupted angrily. “No,
no,” he shouted. “My children are Italian
because they were born in Italy. They are
the children of an Italian and must re-
main in Italy!”

The President considered the papers be-
fore him for some time. There was not a
sound in the courtroom, except for the
faint rustling of those papers. Then the
President shrugged ever so slightly, and
he said, “This court is to decide permanent
custody at this time. But you say to me
one thing; Mr. Rossellini he says another
I—”

“But Mr. Rossellini knows what the
truth is! He knows how much the children
mean to me. Mr. Rossellini — ”

But the President was speaking again.
“As I have said, permanent custody will
be decided here today. Mr. Rossellini must
return the children to you as soon as their
passports to France are put in order, Mrs.
Schmidt. They will be permanently in
your custody from now on. During their
summer vacations, however, the children
will go to their father. But that is all.
This court sees no reason to overrule the

decision of the French courts. This hear-
ing is now at an end.” Fie turned to see
what the next case would be.

And Ingrid, her face alight with relief
and happiness, started to walk out of
the courtroom. But she was stopped
by a gentle hand on her arm. She turned
to look into Roberto’s eyes. “Ingrid.” he
said, so softly that only those in the front
seats heard him, “can’t you call me Roberto
like you always did?”

For a moment she stared into his eyes,
those deep, dark eyes she must remember
so well. “Roberto,” she whispered at last.
“Oh, Roberto . . And she burst into tears.

“As we are separated, can’t we be friends
like we always were?” he asked.

She did not answer, nor did she have
time to, for now she was surrounded by
reporters. Quickly, she wiped her eyes
and pulled herself together. Then, except
that her eyes were still too bright and
her color too high, there was no evidence
of her tears. With reporters on both sides
of her, she moved toward the door. Roberto
stood watching her as she went, and the
spectators turned to peer into her face.

“How brave she is,” a flaxen-haired
young woman murmured.

“How foolish she was,” her middle-aged
companion answered.

“Forget that — it’s all past,” the young
woman insisted. “She is a wiser woman
now. . . . Pain can bring wisdom, you
know.” She stood up to catch a last
glimpse of Ingrid, as she paused in the
doorway, surrounded by reporters. Then
she looked down at her companion. “Have
you forgotten what it is like to be young?”
she asked. “How sad — how terribly sad- —
it didn’t turn out right for her, when she
wanted it to so much.”

“How could it? The seed of love needs
rich soil to grow in, to take root in — other-
wise it blows away. Anybody knows that,”
the middle-aged woman sniffed.

But the young woman wasn’t listening
She was looking at the sunlit doorway in
which statuesque Ingrid Bergman stood,
unflinchingly answering the reporters’
questions. One reporter’s voice boomed
out above the rest. “Was it worth it?” he
was asking. “If you had it all to do over
again, what would you do?”

Ingrid sighed and turned away from the
reporter. This time she could not answer
There were no easy answers to that ques-
tion, the biggest one of all. The End

WATCH FOR INGRID IN “A CHILD IS WAITING”
FOR PARAMOUNT AND “i THANK A FOOL,” M-G-M

NO ONE SPECIAL

Continued from page 35

heater switched on before her father even
had the key in the ignition. “Gosh, it’s
cold,” she said. “I’d forgotten how cold
Portland gets.”

Last year, Barry had said, “Los Angeles
was never like this.”

No it isn’t, she thought now — but Nor-
way is; that’s where Barry would be hon-
eymooning with his Norwegian bride. How
will they celebrate Christmas? Judi won-
dered.

But then she saw that her father had
maneuvered the car out of the airport
parking lot and into the late -afternoon
river of traffic. Slowly, they were moving
toward town, past familiar landmarks, past
others she’d never seen before.

Golly, the town’s growing, she thought.
Why, there used to be nothing here but
vacant lots. Now everything’s turned into
filling stations. And what’s become of the

skating rink? It wasn’t there anymore . .

Gone, too, was the big, solid, yellow
brick building that used to be her best
friend’s house. Now it was a mortuary
Next-door was a boys’ club. Somehow, it
was sad to see any change; sad that any-
thing was different.

But then, her father swung the car out
of the city street and into a traffic clover-
leaf.

“We’ll take the new freeway,” he said, a
note of civic pride in his voice. “It saves
so much time, you’ll like it. This trip you’ll
certainly see a lot of progress.”

Judi nodded agreeably, not saying what
she really thought. She didn’t like the new
freeway — not at all. And she thought to
herself, nothing’s the same. Everything’s
different now. All the things I remembered
are all messed up. I liked the old streets
and the familiar route through town. Why,
this doesn’t even look like Portland!

All of a sudden she felt lost, a stranger
in her own hometown. Things she’d
thought she could count on to stay the
same had given way to new things, strange
things. Nothing was as she’d thought it

would be . . . the freeway instead of the
old, remembered streets . . .

Suddenly, she turned to her father and
said, “Daddy — don’t laugh if I ask a silly
question, but do you really like being
grown-up? I mean, somehow, everything
seemed so much easier, so much simpler,
when I was a little girl. Now, all of a sud-
den, I’m grown-up and what’s so wonder-
ful about it? I thought it would be
wonderful — and I — it’s not. I guess I’m
lonely.”

Her father glanced at her and gave her a
sympathetic pat. Then he turned back to
the road ahead and said softly, “But that’s
because each person’s an individual. That’s
just the way it is, I guess. Only — remember
this, honey — you’re never completely
alone, because your mother and I love you
wherever you are.”

She knew her father had tried to help,
but it didn’t do any good. For the rest of
the ride on the freeway, she stared out the
window. Traffic was heavy; the scenery
dull, but finally, the car cut off, and again
Judi was on familiar ground.

“There’s the high school,” she said, sit-
ting forward to look at the great, grim,
two-story affair with the iron fire-escapes.
Somehow, the ladders looked cold and un-
friendly in the fading light.

A little farther along was Read College
campus, where she’d picked daffodils as a
child.

Barry had laughed last year, she remem-
bered, when she took him to Read and told
him about the flowers.

She’d told him how she knew every bush
and shrub of the grounds. “And, in the
spring, I’d come here to pick daffodils,”
she’d said. “I didn’t think about it being
wrong to steal them . . . that’s what I was
doing, stealing them ... so I picked thou-
sands and sold them door to door.

“I wasn’t very bright. I sold them four
dozen for twenty cents, and I’m sure they
could have brought more. But the funny
part was the neighbors thought I was doing
it to help support the family!

“I can imagine how they must have
talked . . . ‘The poor Boutins sending their
little girl out to peddle flowers.’ I was like
the poor little match girl.

“When my parents found out what I was
doing, they made me stop, but they let me
keep the money I’d made . . . seven dol-
lars.”

“I’ll bet you were a cute child,” he’d
said, but he couldn’t stop laughing at the
idea of Judi’s being the poor little match
girl.

Walking across the campus, holding Bar-
ry’s hand and listening to him laugh, she’d
laughed too, and pretty soon they were
both laughing until tears ran down their
cheeks.

When Judi and her father walked up on
the front stoop of the big, half-tim-
bered Tudor house in which she’d
grown up, she found it hard to smile. Mr.
Boutin put down the suitcase and rang the
bell.

“I want your mother to come to the
door,” he said. “I don’t want to walk in
and have to hunt all over the house for her
and then have her pop out and surprise
us!”

Yes, it would be a surprise. Her mother
had no idea Judi was coming home. But
as Judi stood on the stoop, she couldn’t
help remembering. Everything had been
so different last year. She’d looked for-
ward to it so much . . .

Of course, last year had been a surprise,
too. A wonderful surprise, and she and
Barry had planned it together. They’d
gotten a big, gift-wrapped carton, fixed it
so that it looked all tied up, and then,
when they’d gotten out of the taxi two
doors down from her house, Barry had

closed her up in it. He’d picked up the big
box with her inside and carried it easily up
to the front door. Then he’d rung the bell,
and when her mother’d answered, he’d
said, “Special package for you, m’am.”

“But I didn’t order anything,” she’d said,
looking puzzled and then Judi had popped
out.

“It’s me — I’m a Christmas present,” she’d
said. And the family agreed she was the
nicest present he could have brought . . .

But Judi didn’t have time to think about
it any more. Just then, the door flew open,
and her mother was there. “You did it
again!” she cried, hugging Judi. “You sur-
prised us again!”

Her mother is only five feet tall, wears a
size three-and-a-half shoe, but her size
means nothing; she marshaled Judi into
the living room like a general commanding
an advance.

“Come right in here, honey,” she or-
dered, “and sit down. No, don’t sit down.
Not yet. Just stand there and let me look
at you. When did you decide to come?
How long can you stay? Why didn’t you
let me know? Randa, come here. Randa!
Here’s Judi. Oh, darling, I’m so glad to
see you.”

Randa, thirteen years old and already
taller than Judi, came flying into the room.

“Judi, Judi,” she screamed. “When did
you get here? Who came with you? Did
you come alone?”

There it was again, a poignant reminder
of last Christmas. Yes, she’d come alone
this year. Her mother and father and Ran-
da, too, had been charmed by Barry. The
neighbors had thrown a party in his honor
and given him the highest compliment of
all.

“Why, he’s not a bit like a Hollywood
actor,” they’d said.

“Yes,” Judi said dully, “I came alone.”
Then, while the women all talked at once,
Mr. Boutin retreated upstairs with the
suitcases.

“Now,” her mother said, “you sit there
and rest, Judi. I’m going to bring you a
bowl of home-made vegetable soup. It’s
left from lunch, but I remember you’ve al-
ways liked it, and we won’t have dinner
for at least two hours.

“And isn’t it lucky, Randa, I got that
leg of lamb? Judy, it must be providence,
because I had no idea you’d be here, but I
got a leg of lamb from the butcher just
this morning, and it’s in the oven now.”

Judy grinned.

“You’re wonderful, Mother. You know,
there’s nothing I like better than lamb
and mint jelly. Now, tell me, Randa, what
ribbons have you won lately riding in
horse shows?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Randa, embar-
rassed. “I’ll show them to you later. Right
now, though, tell me, have you really had
dates with Bobby Darin and Edd Byrnes?
What are they like . . . really?”

Then her mother hustled back into the
living room with a tray and a bowl of
soup, her high heels clicking on the
polished floor. The soup smelled good —
good, home-made vegetable soup — it had a
familiar aroma and it brought back mem-
ories of childhood . . . Saturday lunches
. . . late snacks before bed-time. Judi sank
contentedly against the back of her chair.
She didn’t feel like a stranger any more.
She felt secure, loved, contented.

“Now,” her mother said, “I want to show
you some snapshots we got today from
Meredith Ann. She isn’t at all sure they’ll
get here for Christmas this year, so she
sent us pictures of the children. Why, I
hardly recognized them, they’d grown so
much.”

Proudly she passed pictures of her mar-
ried daughter and grandchildren to Judi,
who was busily eating her vegetable soup.

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“Meredith Ann looks happy, doesn’t
she?”

And she should, Judi thought. From the
pictures, her older sister smiled, kneeling
between two beautiful, cherub children.

It must be wonderful . . . wonderful to
know you have someone who’s always in-
terested in everything you think or do . . .
who will go on caring always . . .

Judi spooned another swallow of vege-
table soup, but it didn’t taste quite as good
as it had at first.

“I think,” she said, “before dinner I’ll
run out and do a little shopping if you
don’t mind. I’d sort of like to look in the
stores here. They are staying open late
now, aren’t they?”

“Yes, dear,” her mother said. “Run
ahead, and take your time. We won’t eat
until you get here. And, by the way, Ran-
da’s in your old room now. I don’t sup-
pose you girls will mind staying together,
will you?”

“Of course not,” Judi said, reassuringly.

Her old room . . . That — like the vege-
table soup — was all tied up with memories
of childhood. The mahogany furniture, the
blue-and-white-striped chair upholstered
to match the vanity seat, these were a part
of her adolescence.

I believe, Judi thought, as she climbed
familiar stairs, one of the best things about
being very young is that you can look for-
ward to growing up. No matter what hap-
pens, you can tell yourself, “When I’m
grown-up, everything will be fine.” But
now — now I’m all grown-up; there’s noth-
ing more to look forward to, and I’m un-
happy.

She opened the door to her room and
stepped in.

But that too had changed. The familiar
blue and white chair was gone. So were
the ruffled curtains and the dark mahogany
furniture. Everything was new, in lighter
wood. Prize ribbons from horse shows
were on the walls and a strange record
player was in the corner. It didn’t look at
all like the room that had been hers.

Silently, Judi took her pajamas, robe
and toothbrush out of her dressing case.
Quietly she took them downstairs. When
her parents found out what she’d done,
they objected, but that night, and for the
rest of her visit, she slept in the den.

She didn’t finish her shopping before
dinner, even though she saved time by
taking the family car. Her parents were
hard to shop for; she’d always thought
that. Last year she’d given up the idea of
buying something for them and had cro-
cheted an afghan. She was still tying on
the fringe as she and Barry drove up in
the car.

“You’ll go blind,” he’d warned her. But
he’d looked pretty pleased by her wom-
anly accomplishments. Later, they’d
sneaked out of the house together to have
the afghan blocked before Christmas
morning.

The afghan was beautiful. Barry had
said so, and so had Mr. and Mrs. Boutin.

This year, she just couldn’t decide what
to give. Now Randa might like an album
of records, or a new riding crop. That
wouldn’t be too hard to find. Her mother
might like a skirt or sweater; she looks
smart in casual clothes. Her father? Judi
couldn’t think of anything that would be
right.

I can wait for another day or two to de-
cide, she thought, and crossed the street
to where the car was parked.

As she drove out of the business district,
the automobile took a familiar turn. Al-
most as though it had a will of its own, it
P nosed along a busy boulevard to Yaw’s
Drive-In.

It was at Yaw’s that Judi had met the
gang every afternoon after school. Hang-

ing over the counter inside and lounging in
cars outside, teenage couples listened to
pop tunes on the jukebox, talked about
dates, dances, and football games, held
hands and maybe sneaked a kiss or two.
Judi’d spent hours at Yaw’s with her alge-
bra book on the counter beside her Coke,
with a best friend at her elbow or a favor-
ite beau; she’d always been part of the
crowd — and she’d never thought much
about it, one way or the other.

I’ll stop by and have a Coke now for old
times’ sake, she thought, as she pulled into
the parking lot. The lot was crowded with
cars, each of them filled with young people.

The speaker system from the jukebox
blasted out a rock ’n’ roll tune as she got
out of the car. But by the time she went in-
side, it had switched to Christmas music —
almost drowned out by the noise. Every-
body seemed to be talking at once. Some
were singing, and from a counter stool on
one side of the room, a girl was screaming
to a friend on the opposite side.

Judi ordered a Coke and tried to fit into
the confusion. It didn’t work out too well.
She didn’t see anyone she knew — not one
friend. Where had they all gone? she asked
herself. And then she realized some were
married, some had moved away, but they’d
all outgrown Yaw’s. There was no one here
to giggle with any more.

And where were the boys she’d flirted
with so often? The tall, young high-school
athletes? The slick, young Romeos who
used to drive her home? Married prob-
ably. Every one of them, she thought to
herself, are probably buying presents for
their own children this very instant.

“I feel,” Judi said half-aloud, “at least
250 years old.”

Looking at the fresh faced youngsters
around her, she remembered something
else.

Last year, she’d brought Barry to Yaw’s.
Some of the teenagers had recognized them
and asked questions about Hollywood.
Barry had talked to some of the boys about
their cars, and, before they left, he and
Judi were almost part of the crowd. It had
been fun coming home last year.

This year . . At that moment another
record dropped to the jukebox turntable.
It was an old ballad, popular in the thir-
ties, re-released, with Gordon MacRae on
the vocal, a year or so ago.

“I get along without you very well . .
of course I do . . .” Gordon sang.

Abruptly, Judi shoved her Coke to the
back of the counter, dropped some change
beside it and ran out. Everywhere she
went, everything she saw, made her feel
alone. Maybe — maybe if she dropped in on
some of her old friends she’d feel better.

There were four of her old friends, sit-
ting around playing bridge at the first
place she stopped. And they all seemed
real glad to see her again.

“Judi,” they exclaimed, “what in the
world are you doing here? We thought you
were in Hollywood.”

“I just came home for Christmas,” Judi
told them. “How have you been?”

Everyone, it seemed, had been fine. The
old acquaintances got through preliminary
small talk stiffly. Yes, everyone was fine.
Mary’s baby didn’t sleep too well at night
but Marjorie’s did. Bruce, Sarah’s fiance,
would be in town next week for the first of
the pre-nuptial parties. Yes, Christmas was
just around the corner, wasn’t it?

Four pairs of eyes appraised Judi.

“Is Hollywood as wild as we hear?”
someone asked.

“Don’t you find Portland dull?” said an-
other. “I'll bet you can’t wait to leave.”

Then, “Did you hear the awful thing
that happened to Grade at the Yarbor-
oughs’ open house?” a third contributed,
turning to he>' three companions at the

table. “She had borrowed Elizabeth’s stole,
you know, and Lewis was helping her out
of the car . . .”

The girls at the bridge table were en-
tranced, but Judi was once again the
stranger. She didn’t know Gracie or the
Yarboroughs or Elizabeth or Lewis, but
nobody seemed to notice.

“Excuse me,” she said, trying to keep
her voice steady, “I have to hurry home.
I’m glad I got to see you.”

The four old friends looked at her
quickly, as though they’d almost forgotten
she was there.

“Yes, it was nice,” one said. But another
girl plunged right on with the conversa-
tion. “Now, here’s what the Yarboroughs
told me . . .” Judi let herself safely out
the door.

In the living room that night, trimming
the ceiling-high tree, Judi studied Randa’s
young face, such a happy face, radiating
admiration.

“Judi,” Randa was saying — almost in a
whisper, “I can’t believe it — my own sis-
ter living in Hollywood and having such
an exciting life — it must be perfect. I want
to be just like you,” she said, “when I grow
up.”

“When I grow up” . . . the time of magic
promise for young peoole, the time when
everything will be trouble-free and people
will live happily ever after.

Climbing down from the ladder she’d
been standing on to reach the top
branches, Judi sank to the floor and pulled
Randa down beside her. “You don’t want
to be just like me,” she said.

“You want to be just like yourself,
choose your own path. I knew what I
wanted when I was nine years old. Of
course, you have to do some things to
please other people, but, basically, you’re
the one whom you should try to please the
most.

“Life can be a ‘gas’ ... it can be fun . . .
if you give it as much as you take from it
. . . and if you don’t hurt anybody . . .”

Then, looking at Randa, Judi couldn’t
say any more. Suddenly, she wished she
were like her little sister again, she wished
everything were as simple and sure as it
had seemed then.

Randa must have noticed, because she
said softly, “Judi, whatever became of that
nice boy you brought home last Christ-
mas?”

“He’s going to be married, honey,” Judi
said. “We’re friends now, and — and I hope
he’ll be very happy.”

“Were you surprised,” Randa asked
bluntly, “when he turned around and got
himself engaged like that?”

“Well . . . yes,” Judi confessed. “I guess
I was surprised, but then, I shouldn’t have
been. Life is full of surprises.”

Randa stood up then. “Okay — I hope he’ll
be real happy, too.” Then she said, “Hadn’t
we better finish doing the tree?”

“You finish, will you, Randa? I — I think
I’ll go for a walk.”

Quickly, she rose and ran to the hall
closet. Slipping into her coat, she hurried
out into the cold. She walked aimlessly
until she came to a little church. Then she
stopped, just outside.

“Yes, Barry,” she said to the darkness, “I
do hope you’ll be happy.”

But, oh, she thought, doesn’t anyone
wish that for me, too? There must be
someone for me somewhere. There has to
be. Surely I’m not intended to spend every
Christmas alone, am I?

A tear slipped down her cheek. Judi
wiped it away with the back of a mittened
hand, but, immediately, there was another
to take its place . . .

—NANCY ANDERSON

SEE JUDI MEREDITH EVERY FRIDAY ON CBS-TV

8:30-9:00 p.m. est. in “hotel de paree.”

ANNETTE AND PAUL

Continued from page 29

Jersey. That’s where they moved to. Paul
said they used to live in a place called
Ontario — or something like that. His name
is Andy. Sometimes he misses Andy, so he
does stuff with me, like ping-pong, or
darts. Or archery — he’s good at that, and
so is Annette, anyway she used to be. But
one time she wanted to play with Paul and
me, so she told him that she didn’t know
how.

I was going to tell him the truth, how
Annette was only pretending because she
wanted him to teach her, but I forgot.
We don’t see him all the time because
sometimes he goes to New Jersey to visit
his brother Andy, and he also has to go to
school. Paul doesn’t care for school much.
Neither do I, that’s what first made me like
him.

So does Annette. She likes him a lot — I
heard her tell Shelley, that’s her best
friend, Shelley Fabares. Shelley knows
everything Paul’s gonna do — even before
he does it — on account of her best friend
lives in Paul’s building. That’s how come
Shelley could call Annette and tell her she
knew Paul was going Christmas shopping
at this store.

So that’s why she really took me there,
to make it look like an accident. She kept
trying things on, dress after dress, so I
hid her shoes. She didn’t think it was
funny. Annette kept trying on even more
dresses. By this time, I was mad. So I
didn’t even tell her when I saw him. I just
ran over and said hi first.

Then he told me he was gonna play a
joke on Annette. He thought it was funny
as anything. He and the saleslady dressed
him up like a girl — he looked crazy — and
he went and stood by the mirror Annette
was looking in. You should’ve seen her
face! She screamed like when I put a tur-
tl in her bed once. It was perfect.

After that, I didn’t feel like her trying
on dresses any more, so I said, come on,
I feel like ice cream and a ride on the
roller coaster. She used to love the roller
coaster, but now I can only make her go if
some boy’s with her.

So Paul took us to the park. They
bought sixteen tickets, but I only used
nine, because they weren’t watching me.
They kept walking away, holding hands,
and I had to run after them. That’s how it
is when I’m supposed to go somewhere

with my sister. All she thinks about is
dresses and boys.

Well, she’s only a girl. I mean, I guess
it’s not her fault, as Mom says. Not al-
ways, anyway. But she’s all the time mak-
ing boys act silly. Some of them are silly
anyhow. They come over to the house
and wait around for her for hours. And
they ask stupid questions — you know, how
old are you, what grade are you in, what’s
your favorite subject, stuff like that. Their
favorite subject is Annette.

They all say I’m lucky she’s in the
movies, but that’s a lot of baloney. I bet
their sisters don’t have to work. My
brother Joey says they talk like that just
to find out stuff about her and show off.
Joey’s fourteen, and he shows off in front
of girls, too, just like all the rest. I don’t
understand what makes them act that way.

I used to think Paul was different —
until yesterday at the park, when I got
scared and couldn’t find them. Finally, I
saw them sitting where the band plays,
only there wasn’t any band, and all the
other seats in the audience were empty.
That’s where I found them holding hands.
I ran up and said Mom’ll be mad if we’re
late for dinner again. Boy, did Paul look
silly — he got up real quick and said he’d
bring us home. I guess I must of scared
him.

But a funny thing happened. Annette
left her sweater on the seat. I tried to
tell her to run back and get it, but she
said shh and asked if I wanted an ice
cream — right before dinner!

She said she wouldn’t tell about the ice-
cream pop — she ate half of it herself any-
way— if I didn’t tell about the sweater. But
we both told anyway.

Later, when we got home, she called
Paul and said she must have left it at the
park. She closes her door when she’s on
the telephone, but I hide in the hall and
listen. He probably said he’d go right back
and get it because she told him don’t
hurry, it’s okay if you bring it over later,
after dinner. What an actress!

I ran down to the kitchen and spilled
the whole story to Mom, but all she said
was never mind, you’ll understand when
you get older — she always says that. But
I can’t stand how Annette makes Paul go
all mushy. She’ll probably kill me for
telling you all this, but I don’t care.

—MICHAEL FUNICELLO

don’t MISS PAUL IN U-l’s “THE PRIVATE
LIVES OF ADAM AND EVE,” AND “GIRLS’ TOWN”
FOR M-G-M. PAUL RECORDS ON THE ABC-PAR.
LABEL, AND ANNETTE ON BUENA VISTA LABEL.

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When Sandra Dee joined Edd Byrnes and me at our table, everybody stared.

T et’s Go to a Party: Heigh ho, what a month for par-
ties! First. Edd Byrnes was my guest at the Brown
Derby party, and what a sensation this lad creates. Quiet,
unassuming and a gentleman who never combs his hair in
public, Edd is one of the most popular young men in town.
And when that doll Sandra Dee joined us for a chat — that
did it. Ours was the most popular table in the place that was
jammed with celebrities like Groueho Marx and his very
pretty wife Eden. . . . An invitation from Rock Hudson and
Doris Day to attend a “Pillow Talk” party was promptly
accepted. Rock’s date for the evening was his charming moth-
er, and no beau could have been more attentive than Rock.
Maria Cooper, dancing with handsome Joe Cronin, made
an attractive couple, but Jeff Chandler and Esther Wil-
liams, with their dance floor “togetherness,” are one couple
that puzzles me. Are they serious or aren’t they? Or what
goes with these two???? One couple there’s no question
about these days are David Niven and his Hjordis. After
that brief separation, they’re closer together and happier than
ever. Spotted Peter Brown arriving with Connie Stevens.
Peter, though his marriage to Diane Jergens didn’t work
out, is willing to try again. It probably won’t be with Connie,
though. She isn’t ready. . . . Producer Hal Bartlett threw a
shindig for the “All the Young Men” cast, with Alan Ladd
and Sidney Poitier on hand to greet the guests. Afterward,
the Ladds and I took off for the Moulin Rouge to view the
Crosby Boys in action. With Alan and Sue, who were close
to the boys as young lads. I traipsed backstage when the
show was over to congratulate the boys on their exciting per-
formance. And a few evenings later, Bing himself showed up,
ending that feud between himself and his oldest son Gary.

Sass Talk: It’s so typical of Tuesday
Weld. At a recent party, Tuesday’s es-
cort, realizing the young lady had an
early-morning call on the set, escorted
her home at midnight. Ten minutes later.
Tuesday was back by herself and had a
ball until the wee small hours. Now what
can you do with a doll like that? ? ? ? Its
feud time once more between Cara Wil-
liams and John Barrymore Jr., whose
brief two-day reconciliation blew sky-
high. A short while afterward, John,
wearing a beard, announced that he
and Italy’s Giorgia Moll were engaged.
. . . Dolores Michaels, who sneezed
herself out of wedlock with decorator
Maurice Martine (“I had a cold the
whole time I was married to him”), didn’t take kindly to
Joan Collins grabbing off the coveted role in “7 Thieves.”
Rumors had the two girls exchanging glares across the studio
dining room. . . . But it’s Frank Sinatra who takes the cake
for stirring up gales on his various sets. Director Walter
Lang, the easiest man in the world to get along with, looked
wearied and worn by the time “Can Can” was completed.
. . . Liz Taylor asked for and got $1,000,000 for making
“Cleopatra.” That’s what Hollywood thinks of her talent.
But Liz will first have to make "Butterfield o,” in which
Eddie Fisher was offered a small role.

1 + 1 = 2: Barrie Coe — bridegroom ! It’s a new role, but
Hollywood’s handsome bachelor Barry says it’s for him. He
had the usual pre-marital jitters before he and Jorunn
Kristiansen took off for Norway to be married. “Do you
think her family will like me, Sara? Do you?” he insisted.
And of course, I did. Barrie dated both Miss Sweden and
Miss Norway during the Miss Universe contest, before he
decided Jorunn of Norway was the only girl for him. ... On
this side of the Atlantic, wedding bells will ring for Darryl
Hickman and TV actress Pamela Lincoln, and maybe
one dav soon for “Riverboat’s” Burt Reynolds and pretty
Lori Nelson. Lori is no longer interested in “How To Mar-
ry a Millionaire” — on TV or off. . . . Could be Eva Gabor
started this orange-blossom routine when she suddenly mar-
ried handsome (and rich) Richard Brown. But not even
the happy Eva can sway Dean Stockwell and Millie
Perkins, who admit they’re in love, they’re engaged, but not
yet ready for marriage. But then they could change their
charming minds, vou know.

qaq

With Connie Stevens as his date, Peter
Brown gets back in the bachelor swing.
But Peter hasn’t given up on marriage.

Esther Williams and Jeff Chandler
look as close to marriage as two people
can. But looks can often be deceiving.

David and Hjordis: good times are back.
Only Eden gets to see the serious Groucho.

The Personal Angle: Before Deborah Kerr took off for
Australia and “The Sundowners,” she arranged for fresh
flowers to fill every room of her Pacific Palisades home when
Audrey Hepburn and Mel Ferrer arrived to take over the
house. A typical Deborah gesture that makes her so beloved
by everybody. Incidentally, I hear Deborah may be a June
bride, with Peter Viertel the groom, of course. . . . Frankie
Avalon will never forget his 19th birthday in Brackenville,
Texas, during the shooting of “The Alamo.” “They knocked
me speechless,” says Frankie, “with 19 cakes, one for each
year, and gifts from everyone. John Wayne gave me a keen
pair of cowboy boots. What a way to say goodbye to my
teens.” . . . And girls, don’t believe all you hear about this
one and that one being Fabe’s one and
only. “My new studio contract is the
only steady date I have,” he confesses.

“I enjoyed making ‘Hound Dog Man’
so much I can’t wait to make an-
other one.” . . . Can’t help admiring
that Dorothy Malone. Before she
was married, not a breath of scandal
touched her. And now that she’s Mrs.

Jacques Bergerac, she’s managing her
life in the very same way. . . . Lovely
and sensible Mrs. Dean Martin is upset
over those exaggerated reports of her
husband’s excessive drinking. “When TV
comics begin to make a joke of it, I think
it’s gone far enough,” she says. “It’s
harmful to Dino as an actor and a fam-
ily man. And besides, it isn’t true.” Dino,

I hear, doesn’t find it too funny, either.

My Mail Box Corner: My thank-yous to Ken Jordan of
Atlanta for telling me about the good work Liz Taylor’s
official fan club is doing in making up colorful scrapbooks to
be donated to children’s hospital in Liz’s name. . . . No nicer
tribute could be paid George Nader than the charming let-
ter sent me by Mrs. Gladys L. Bankston of Haywood, Calif.,
who tells of George’s comforting messages to her in her hour
of great need. This is a letter George himself must read. . . .
Rita Lewandowski of Chicago, who wonders how to get
aboard my “Andy Williams Bandwagon,” is already there.
So is Liza Hudson of North Reading, Mass. . . . I’m sending
that beautiful letter from J. Arvine Musler of Chicago, right
along to her favorite star, Tab Hunter. ( Continued )

Dot Malone’s not a bit worried about what anyone says about her and Jacques.

Ty wasn’t prepared for both John Richard and Jeff Orison.

Cal York’s Jottings: Ingemar Johansson,

heavyweight champ from Sweden in town for the movie “All
the Young Men,” had a terrific crush on Stella Stevens.
Telephoned her every day from location. . . . Tommy Sands
thinks so highly of Sherry Jackson, he loaned her his red
T-bird to use while he made personal appearances. And
Sherry made a personal appearance of her own with Will
Hutchins at the Thalian ball. But not in Tommy’s car. . . .
Her friends applauded Gene Tierney’s courage in taking a
job as clerk in a Topeka, Kansas, shop, near her doctors at
the Menninger Clinic. . . . Elvis Presley presented his busi-
ness manager Colonel Tom Parker with a $15,000 Rolls
Royce car. Elvis is delighted with the way the Colonel has
kept his name alive during his army stint abroad. . . . Glenn
Ford and Eleanor Powell are strangers when they meet in
their lawyers’ offices. Poles apart, these two, with little chance
of a reconciliation. . . . Victor Mature will bring home his
bride, Joy Urwick, to live on his ranch near Delmar, Calif.
. . . Mrs. Lee Strasherg accompanied Marilyn Monroe to
Hollywood to act as drama coach while MM made “The
Billionaire.” ... It was a Las Vegas wedding for Debbie
Power, Tyrone’s widow, and Arthur Loew Jr., the ex-
suitor of Liz Taylor. The couple will make their future home
in New York along with Ty’s young son, who grows to look
more and more like his handsome father. . . . Ty Hardin had
the name “John Richard” all ready, in case he and Andra
Martin had a boy. So they had twins, and Ty had to come
up with a second name fast. He chose Jeff Orison, swears he
was able to tell his sons apart from the very first. . . Gossip
T has Bobby Darin the next TV Coca-Cola kid, filling in the
spot left vacant by Eddie Fisher. Bobby’s so excited over
that $40,000 contract with Paramount studios.

June and Fred found out what marriage really means.

Hollywood Is Like That: A Hollywood columnist sug-
gested that Vic Damone staged that reconciliation with
Pier Angeli just long enough to acquire custody of their
young son. Pier says it isn’t so. When she’s not making films
in Europe, the two will share their child equally. . . . Heard
my name called as I stepped from a shop elevator and there
was my old friend June Haver, excited about a trip to
Europe. “Stay until Fred comes,” she insisted. So there sat
the Fred MacMurrays and I, looking at the chic size 8’s for
June and talking over old times. What a happy, successful
marriage these two have. ... A telephone call from Earl
Holliman — “That one line in your column about my recent
illness brought on so many letters . . . Sara, will you please
tell everyone how grateful I am?” I gathered Earl’s not too
happy with his TV show, “Hotel de Paree.” How do you feel
about the show?

|! "'V\* W--:;. I Look Back: He was the first <|

«[ of his kind — a lisping gangster. |[

As such, in "The Petrified For-
est,” Humphrey Bogart became
a screen sensation. He remained
one until the day he died, three
years ago. To "Bogey,” Holly-
wood folk were divided into two
distinct groups: The "creeps”
and the “sweethearts.” And
lucky the man and woman who
fell into the “sweetheart” group, but heaven help those
who didn’t. He was a born heckler. As a small boy, Bogey
was painted by his artist mother, Maude Humphrey, as a
sort of golden-haired Fauntleroy. He grew out of that role
in a hurry. His careless indifference to clothes and his
amazingly frank choice of words belied his gentle upbring-
ing and his exclusive alma mater, Phillip’s Andover
Academy. After his stint in World War I, Bogey became
first a stockbroker and then a Broadway actor. His mar-
riages were many and lively and ended in divorce. When
he met Lauren Bacall in the movie "To Have and Have
Not,” they fell instantly in love. On May 21, 1945, they
were married and so began the happiest period of his life.
He was the first actor to own and operate his own boat,
“The Santana,” which he loved with a fierce pride.

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FEBRUARY, 1960

VOL. 57, NO 2

FAVORITE OF AMERICA'S MOVIEGOERS FOR OVER FORTY YEARS

DEBBIE REYNOLDS

ROCK HUDSON
TOPS IN POPS

EXCLUSIVE

40 “Much of Whof I Tried to Do in Marriage Was Wrong . .

by Dorothy Day

48 “I’m Rock's Best Gal But He Treats Me like a Dog”

65 Photoplay Gold Medal Record Awards for 1959

TWELVE PAGE PINUP CALENDAR

25 May Every Day of Your New Year be a Happy One

MARION BRANDO

TROY DONAHUE

SHIRLEY TEMPLE

TY HARDIN and

ANDRA MARTIN

DONNA REED

DODIE STEVENS

CLARK GABLE

FRANKIE AVALON

JILL ST JOHN

ARTICLES AND SPECIAL FEATURES

Why He Always Turns His Back on love

Sixteen Minutes After the Picture Was Taken by Marcia Borie
“Mommy, Did you Really Know Shirley Temple?”

by Jone Ardmore

“Help Wanted Party”

It's Worth Fighting to Save a Marriage by George Christy
I Wish I May, I Wish I Might by Rono Barrett
How Does It Feel to Die by Roberta Downs
Something Was Wrong . . . Terribly Wrong by Joe Lyle
Once Upon a Time . by Beatrice March

YOUNG IDEAS

Monthly Record by George

Your Needlework

Your New Year Ballot

Becoming Attractions

Readers Inc.

Answers to January's Puzzle

NEWS AND REVIEWS

Hollywood for you by Skolsky

Casts of Current Pictures

Go Out to a Movie

Inside Stuff by Sara Hamilton

79 Now Ploying (Brief Reviews)

COVER PHOTO: Debbie Reynolds courtesy of M-G-M

EVEIYN PAIN, Editor KENNETH CUNNINGHAM, Art Director

NORMAN SIEGEl, W est Coast Editor

claire safran, Managing Editor rate paliimbo. Fashion Editor

NANCY erikson, Associate Editor JUNE Clark, Beauty Editor

tobi feldstein. Assistant Editor rocer marshltz. Staff Photographer

jim hoffman, vivien mazzone. Contributing Editors joan clarke, Assistant Art Director
ann kanes, Asst. to Editor marcia borif.. West Coast Contributor

Your March issue will be on sale at your newsstand on February 4th

Photoplay is Published Monthly by Mocfodden Publications, Inc., New York, N. Y.

Subscription Rates: $2.50 one year, $4.00 two years, $5.50 three years in U. S., its possessions and Canoda
$5.00 per year all other countries.

Foreign editions handled through Macfadden Publications International Corp., 205 East 42nd Street, New York
17, N. Y, Irving S. Manheimer, President; Douglas Lockhart, Vice-President.

Re-entered as Second Class matter May 10, 1946 at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March
3 1879. Second-class postage paid at New York, N. Y., and other post offices. Authorized as Second Class
Mail P. O Dept., Ottawa, Ont., Canada. Copyright 1960 by Macfadden Publications, Inc. All rights reserved
Copyright under the Universal Copyright Convention and International Copyright Convention. Copyright reserved
under Pan American Copyright Convention. Todos derechos reservados segun la Convencion Panameticana de
Propiedad Literoria y Artistica Title trademark registered In U S Potent Office Printed in U.S A by Art Color
Printing Company Member of True Story Women’s Group.

THEY'RE

Having
A Little
trouble
With her
Gazebo*

but doesn't O

everyone (

She
never
had a
gazebo!

**r5K

METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER

Presents

GLEnn

FORD

in AN AVON
PRODUCTION

DEBBIE
..EVI10LDS

GAzeBO

co-starring CARL REINER

WITH JOHN McGIVER
^ThermanTSTSHo!!

Tlrey're

mad

about

gazebos!

just

loves

’em!

*/t’s a little house
with a big secret!

SCREEN PLAY BY

Cinemascope • GEORGE WELLS

PRODUCED BY

GEORGE MARSHALL • LAWRENCE WEINGARTEN

DIRECTED BY

THAT’S
HOLLYWOOD
FOR YOU

BY SIDNEY SKOLSKY

TAools rush in where wise men fear

to tread, so here I go, rushing in
to predict this year’s winners of the
Photoplay Gold Medal movie awards.
I’m an old motion-picture handicap-
per, and I’ve been predicting the
Academy Award winners for the past
ten years. My record is pretty good.
But picking the Gold Medal win-
ners is a lot tougher (maybe that’s
why nobody’s ever tried it before in
39 years ) .

It’s a lot easier to private-eye the
doings of some 2,200 Academy mem-
bers who vote for the Oscar, than
over a million readers of Photoplay
who are eligible to pick the Gold
Medal winners.

But before I narrow the field down
to the leading contenders and then,
from these, pick the winners — -or try
to pick them — let me fill you in on
the history of the Gold Medals. Did
you know they predate the Oscars by
eight years?

Let’s flashback to the year 1920.
It was the year A1 Jolson was making
“Avalon’’ popular . . . Jack Dempsey
was The Champ . . . Woodrow Wilson
was President . . . Douglas Fairbanks
and Mary Pickford married . . . and
a movie named “Humoresque” won
the very first Gold Medal derby.
Based on Fannie Hurst’s story, the
movie made a star of Gaston Glass,
who’s now production manager of
the TV unit at 20th-Fox. The 1921
Gold Medal was awarded to “Tol’able
David,” starring the extremely popu-
lar Richard Barthelmess and directed
by Henry King, who’s worked in
silent movies, early talkies, late talkies
and now in CinemaScope, with “Be-

loved Infidel.” In 1923, the Gold
Medal winner was James Cruze’s
“The Covered Wagon.” Photoplay
readers made a smart choice, because
this epic began the cycle of movies de-
picting American pioneer life. I still
remember the giant electric sign cov-
ering the entire front of the Criterion
Theater on Broadway; it showed a
covered wagon making progress
across the prairie, and crowds always
stopped and stared at it. The current
actor joke of the day was: “I was in
‘The Covered Wagon’ . . . but you
couldn’t see me. I was inside.”

And when George Arliss in “Dis-
raeli' won the 1929 Gold Medal,
everyone said that, from then on,
children would grow up thinking all
men of history looked like Arliss,
who also portrayed “George Hamil-
ton.” Later on, it was believed chil-
dren would think all great men looked
like Paul Muni : to be followed by the
belief that Alexander Graham Bell
and Stephen Foster must have been
look-alikes, because Don Ameche
played them both.

Then in 1939 there came “Gone
With the Wind,” and after it a change
in the Gold Medal Awards. You —
the readers and voters — wanted to
name your favorite actor and actress
as well as movie. Clark Gable as
Rhett Butler was certainly the most
popular actor of the year, but he has
no Gold Medal to prove it. In a few
years, this situation would be taken
care of — what the readers want, the
readers get. Don’t forget the Gold
Medal Award is the only movie con-
test of merit in which the winners are
picked by you. and not by critics or

exhibitors or members of an academv.

The first actor and actress to win
Gold Medals were Bing Crosby and
Greer Garson in 1944. It was the
year that Bing’s picture, “Going My
Way, also won the Photoplay Gold
Medal derby. And, surprisingly, for
the next four years, Der Bingle was
also voted a Gold Medal, making him
a winner five consecutive times. The
closest competitor to Bing is Ingrid
Bergman, a three-time winner (1946-
47-48). William Holden won twice
(1954-55) and so did Rock Hudson
( 1956-57 ) . Last year, the winners
were Tony Curtis, Debbie Reynolds
and “Gigi.” The newcomer awards
went to Edd Byrnes and David Nel-
son (a tie) and Sandra Dee.

And now it’s time for me to put
myself on the spot. Here goes:

BEST MALE STAR

Pat Boone: Promised in previous
starts. Always a threat. He could
take it.

Edward Byrnes: Won last time out
in Newcomers field. Is Kookie enough
to move up in class and take this one?
Tony Curtis: Knows this track. Won
this Derby last year and could repeat.
May go wire to wire. Have to catch
him.

Rock Hudson: Veteran in this clas- j
sic. Always hard to beat. Been win-
ner here twice. Never been sharper.
Picked To Win: Rock Hudson. It
may be a photo finish with Tony
Curtis, but 1 believe the Rock has j
too much ( Doris Day and “Pillow
Talk”) going for him.

BEST FEMALE STAR |

Doris Day: A fine filly who always *
finishes in the money. Record shows J
she won this Derby in 1951. She <
has the speed and form to force the . ,
pace.

Sandra Dee: She won in Newcomers f
field last year. Like running com- j
panion Edd Byrnes, she could move (
up and take this one. There’s outside j
chance last year’s Newcomers could
be this year’s Best Actor and Actress.
Carol Lynley: Comes from “Blue
Denim” stable. Taking a shot at
the moon.

Kim Novak: Usually out front. She
won it in 1956. This isn’t her year.

( Continued )

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Lana Turner: Good spot for upset
win. She chased some good ones.
Always dangerous.

Debbie Reynolds: Last year’s win-
ner could repeat. Has discarded
“Tammy” braids and is carrying less
weight. Always game in stretch.
Picked To Win: Doris Day. Class
of the pack, what with Rock Hudson
and “Pillow Talk” making it easier.
The big surprise could be Lana
Turner, the sentimental favorite. Sen-
timent goes a long way.

BEST MOTION PICTURE

“Anatomy of a Murder”: Can’t be
overlooked. Dangerous if it doesn’t
falter when it rounds the Family
Circle.

“Ben-Hur”: Big and spectacular in
early workouts. Might be too soon.
Tab for the future.

“Gidget”: Young filly very popular
with young backers. Shows early
speed. Question is: Can it go the
distance?

“Hercules”: A surprise entry. He
came out of nowhere, and could finish
there. Strong, but needs more speed.
“The Shaggy Dog”: Might be the
sleeper of the race. Wearing the
colors of the Walt Disney stable,
which is noted for many winners.
“Imitation of Life”: Old plug pop-
ular at the box office. A strong con-
tender. Enough handkerchiefs could
wave it into winner’s circle.

“Hound Dog Man”: It came along
for the ride. They want to give his
jockey Fabian an airing.

“Pillow Talk”: The wise talk makes
it the favorite. It’s the class entry
with best spot at starting gate. Should
have best spot at finishing line. Got
to beat this one to win.

“Some Like It Hot”: A long shot.
Strictly for laughs.

Picked To Win: I’m going against
the odds, the wise-talk and the sure
thing. I’m picking “Imitation of
Life” to upset “Pillow Talk” and win
it in a Photo Finish.

BEST MALE NEWCOMER

Paul Anka: Will go all the way.
Doubtful if he can win it for a song.

Troy Donahue: The race is not al-
ways to the swift or the best looking.
Tab for future Photoplay Derby.
Fabian: He’s been riding the hounds
and the disc jockeys for this race.
Has the necessary speed for this short
distance.

Rick Nelson: Promised in previous
starts. Always a threat. He could
take it.

Steve Reeves: A strong contender.
Comes from a powerful stable. He
can go the distance but is carrying
too much weight for this field.
Picked To Win: This is my Special, (
My Sure-Thing Selection. Fabian. \

BEST FEMALE NEWCOMER

Diane Baker: A classy filly. Always

gives a good performance. It’s not
her time.

Annette Funicello: Running for the
Walt Disney stable. They believe she’s
ready to win the big one. Has had
several popular outings.

Susan Kohner: Has been threatening
and is due. Always finishes in the
money.

Dodie Stevens: Could spot for upset
win. Showed good form. Has plenty
of speed. If track is in the pink, she
could take it.

Tuesday Weld: Always dangerous.
Inclined to break fast and falter in
distance. Tab for future. It doesn’t
seem to be Tuesday’s day.

Picked To Win: Annette Funicello.
It’s a close race all the way to the
wire between her and Dodie Stevens.

THERE YOU HAVE THEM: my se

lections for the 39th running of the
Photoplay Gold Medal Derby. How-
ever, don’t bet too heavily on them.
The only thing I really know is that
I don’t know how to pick the Gold
Medal winners. Back in 1947, “The
Jolson Story” won Photoplay’s Gold
Medal and no one was more surprised
than me. And I’ve got the Gold j
Medal to prove it! So don’t bet on
me. I’ll be waiting with you for the
next issue of Photoplay — and The
Winners. See you at the newsstand,
on February 4th. You bring the salt-
in case 1 have to eat my own words.

James Garner

Big mam... Big ckarm...Big mh&ions...

. BUT FROM THE GIRL not even A uttle Kiss !

This fellow-
he's a zillionaire...
But this girl - she
keeps giving
him the air...!
Why should it
be ? People, you
gotta see I
It's the new year's
big bright
romantic delight!

'T-R&Y'lfi,

FROM THE BIG BEST-SELLER BY THE AUTHOR OF EXECUTIVE SUITE

a WARNER BROS, picture • TECHNICOLOR®

ALSO-STARRING

NINA FOCH- DEAN JAGGER- EfiMARSBAlL- HENRY J01S--S

Screenplay try

and

Produced by

HENRY BlANKf

What’s on tonight?

to see the best! Look for

these new pictures

at your favorite theater

Ben-Hur m-c-m; CAMERA 65, TECHNICOLOR

It’s the most expensive movie ever made, and maybe
we’re inclined to approach it with a chip on the shoulder:
“All right, show me what’s so special.” But we’ll go on
record: The $15,000,000 “Ben-Hur” turns out to be the
finest of the big pictures about Bible days ever made. Its
producer, the late Sam Zimbalist, and director, William
Wyler, give the actors a real chance, a good story and plenty
to cope with in this epic about Roman imperialism, Jewish
patriotism and Christianity’s beginnings. Charlton Heston’s
a proud Judean prince; Haya Harareet’s a beautiful slave
who loves him. Stephen Boyd (see left, at top, with Charlton
Heston) is a Roman fanatic, Jack Hawkins is a tough but
civilized Roman — and they’re all good and make these long-
ago people as deeply interesting as if they were living right
now. For once, the wide screen’s filled full with spectacular
action. When that famous chariot race goes into full swing,
you’ll be on the edge of your seat. But it’s not the suspense
or the pageantry that’s most impressive. The most remark-
able thing about the picture is that, while this happened
2,000 years ago, its emotions and ideas are important in
our own world todav. family

m-c-m; cinemascope,

METROCOLOB

The W reck of the Mary Deare

Here’s Heston again, but the adventure he’s mixed up in
this time around has absolutely no historical significance.
It’s good, solid, straightforward entertainment that gets right
down to the business of being exciting and scary in the
opening scene. Charlton’s prowling around a freighter that
seems to be utterly deserted, drifting in rough seas off
England, when suddenly a gaunt, grim, battered figure
appears — Gary Cooper — but what’s he up to? Why did the
rest of the crew abandon ship? What really happened to
the captain? Our two heroes have to do some highly un-
official (and dangerous) snooping to get all the answers.
(There’s no time for romance in these hearty, masculine
doings; pretty as Virginia McKenna is — see left, at bottom,
with Coop.) The flavor’s good and salty: The Mary Deare
looks like a real old rust bucket of a ship, and sometimes
you have the uneasy feeling that the theater floor has
developed a distinct roll. Or is it pitching? family

Black Orpheus lopert; EASTMAN color

What a strange and lovely and haunting picture this is!
If you have a taste for the exotic, then here’s a real banquet,
because “Black Orpheus” was shot in Brazil by a French
director (Marcel Camus), and it’s based on an ancient Greek
legend, of a musician who followed his dead beloved into
the Underworld and tried to use his lyre to charm her
free. There’ ve been a number of changes made. Like

( continued )

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this Orpheus is a handsome, dark-
skinned conductor on a Rio de Janeiro
streetcar, and he’s in a hurry to get his
guitar out of hock in time for the big
carnival. His Eurydice is a shy coun-
try girl who says she’s being chased by
a stranger who wants to kill her. Breno
Mello and Marpessa Dawn are a good-
looking, graceful pair of lovers. In
fact, the whole picture is a pleasure to
watch, with its views of the city and the
mountains and the harbor and its wild
carnival scenes. And it has a double
fascination: It shows us how the poor
people of Rio actually live and, at the
same time, it has a weird supernatural
feeling, with haunting touches like the
“Death’’ costume of Eurydice’s pur-
suer. The other carnival merrymakers
think it’s just a costume, yet . . . adult

A Touch of Larceny paramount

Just remember this is only a pretty
clever money-making scheme, so don’t
get any bright ideas from it! James
Mason’s operating on a British navy
officer’s modest salary, and he wants
to earn a fast buck ( beg pardon, we
mean quid) so he can woo Vera
Miles away from George Sanders,
who’s stuffy but rich. So James gets
a brainstorm: He’ll frame himself for
treason and then sue the newspapers
for libel. The picture’s a little slow in
working up to this crazy situation, but
once it gets there, it’s good fun. family

tieloved Infidel 20th; cinema-

scope, DE LUXE COLOR

It’s too bad that at the beginning,
this tearful love story assumes that,
one. we all know all about F. Scott
Fitzgerald and, two, that we’re all
passionately interested in business
problems of a gossip columnist I Shei-
iah Graham). After a while when we

forget that Gregory Peck and Deborah
Kerr (below, left) are playing famous
people, the picture settles down to a
very simple and touching story about
a girl who loves a drunk — who’s a
charming, talented fellow when he’s
sober and impossible when he’s loaded.
Although this is obviously supposed to
be a “woman’s picture,” because it’s
told from Deborah’s viewpoint, it’s
Gregory who walks right away with it.
You’ll be surprised at Peck. Up to
now he’s usually been so reserved
that who’d have ever expected him to
show such violent, bitter emotion. A
very impressive job, Mr. Peck! adult

The Flying Fontaines Columbia

At least, hexe we get a good look at
three new young players: Michael Cal-
lan, Evy Norlund (below, right) and
Rian Garrick. It’s all about the
tangled-up love lives of the boys and
girls on the Hying trapeze. Mickey
comes across nicely as a temperamental
“flyer” who’s lugging around a bur-
den of guilt, but too bad, against the
circus background there wasn’t a story
with more color, laughs, action, family

The Cranes Are Flying warners;

DIALOGUE IN RUSSIAN, TITLES IN ENGLISH

You may remember reading about
the cultural-exchange agreement our
State Department made with Russia.
Well, here’s the first of the Soviet
movie imports. There isn’t a bit of
politics in it; it’s just a simple love
story about a girl, a soldier and a
musician. A warmly emotional young
actress named Tatyana Samoilova
makes you understand this girl so well
that it hurts. The whole movie —
music, photography that’s downright
poetic — is put together in an exciting
style you’ll find hard to forget, family

The swinging purse . . . the swaying hips . . . the sensuous body against the lamp-post
. . .then, the sudden glint of a knife ... a choked scream . . . fleeing footsteps
and over and over he would repeat his brutal , compulsive act of killing l

This

THE MOST DIABOLICAL MURDERER IN ALL
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THE GREAT SCOTLAND YARD, THE CELEBRATED
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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON ... THE FILE ON
JACK THE RIPPER HAS NEVER CLOSED.

JOSEPH E. LEVINE PRESENTS

JACK

JOSEPH E. LEVINE presents
Screenplay by JIMMY SANGSTER

JACK THE RIPPER starring LEE PATTERSON • EDDIE BYRNE • BETTY McDOWALL • EWEN SOLON

From an original story by PETER HAMMOND and COLIN CRAIG • Produced, Directed and Photographed by ROBERT S. BAKER and MONTY BERMAN
A Mid-Century Film Production • A PARAMOUNT PICTURES RELEASE

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CASTS

OF CURRENT PICTURES

BELOVED INFIDEL — 20th. Directed by Henry
King: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gregory Peck; Sheilah
Graham, Deborah Kerr; Carter. Eddie Albert;
John Wheeler, Philip Ober; Stan Harris, Herbert
Rudley; Lord Donegall, John Sutton; Janet
Pierce, Karin Booth; Robinson, Ken Scott; Dion ,
Buck Class; Johnson, A. Cameron Grant; Miss
Bull (Receptionist) , Cindy Ames.

BEN-HUR — M-G-M. Directed by William Wy-
ler: Judah Ben-Hur, Charlton Heston; Quintus
Arrius, Jack Hawkins; Messala, Stephen i»oyd;
Esther, Haya Harareet; Sheik Ilderim, Hugh
Griffith; Miriam, Martha Scott; Simonides, Sam
Jaffe; Tirzah, Cathy O’Donnell; Balthasar , Pin-
lay Currie; Pontius Pilate, Frank Thring; Drus-
us, Terence Longden; Sextus, Andre Morell;
Flavia, Marina Berti; Tiberius, George keiph;
Malluch, Adi Berber; Amrah, Stella Vitehesehi;
Mary, Jose Greci; Joseph, Laurence Payne; spin-
tho, John Horsley; Metellus, Richard Cole. nan;
Marius, Duncan Lamont; Aide to Tiberius, Ralph
Truman; Gaspar, Richard Hale; Melchior, Regin-
ald Lai Singh; Quaestor, David Davies; Jailer,
Dervis Ward; The Christ, Claude Heater; ( ,ratus .
Mino Doro; Chief of Rowers, Robert Brown;
Rower No. 42, John Glenn; Rower No. 43, Max-
well Shaw; Rower No. 28, Emile Carrer; Leper,
Tutte Lemkow; Hortator, Howard Lang; Cap-
tain, Rescue Ship, Ferdy Mayne; Doctor, John
Le Mesurier; Blind Man, Stevenson Lang; Bar-
ca, Aldo Mozele; Starter at Race, Thomas
O’Leary; Centurion, Noel Sheldon; Officii, Hec-
tor Ross; Soldier, Bill Kuehl; Man in Nazareth,
Aldo Silvani; Villager, Diego Pozzetto; Ma .ello,
Dino Fazio; Raimondo, Michael Cosmo; ( a: airy
Officer, Also Pini; Decurian, Remington Olm-
stead; Galley Officer No. 1, Victor De La Fosse;
Galley Officer No. 2, Enzo Fiermonte; Mario,
Hugh Billingsley; Roman at Bath, Tiberio Mitri;
Pilate's Servant, Pietro Tordi; The Corinthian,
Jerry Brown; 7 'he Byzantine , Otello Capanna;
The Syrian, Luigi Marra; The Nubian, Cliff
Lyons; The Athenian, Edward J. Auregui; The
Egyptian, Joe Yrigoyan; The Armenian , Alfredo
Danesi; Old Man, Raimondo Van Riel; Seaman
Mike Dugan; Sportsman, Joe Canutt.

BLACK ORPHEUS Lopert. Directed by Mar-
cel Camus: Ecurydice, Marpessa Dawn; Orpheus,
Breno Mello; Mira, Lourdes de Oliveira: Scra-
fina, Lea Garcia; Chico-Boto ( Serafina' s friend),
Waldetar de Souza; Death, Adherma da Silva.

CRANES ARE FLYING, THE — Warners. Di-
rected by Mikhail Kalatozov: Veronica, Tatyana
Samoilova; Boris, Alexei Batalov; Fyodor Ivano-
vich (Boris' father), Vasily Merkuryev : Mark
(Boris' cousin), A. Shvorin; Irina (Boris' sis-
ter), S. Kharitonova; Volodya, K. Nikitin;
Stephan, V. Zubov; Grandmother, A. Bogdanova.

FLYING FONTAINES, THE — Columbia. Di-
rected by George Sherman: Rick Rias, .Michael
Callan; Suzanne Fontaine, Evy Norlund : Jan,
Joan Evans; Bill Rand, Rian Garrick: Roberto
Rias, Joe de Santis; Paul Fontaine, Roger Perry;
Victor Fontaine, John Van Dreelen; Michele,
Jeanne Manet; Margie, Barbara Kelley: Sally,
Dorothy Johnson; Doctor , Pierre Watkin; Ring
Announcer, Murray Parker.

TOUCH OF LARCENY . A - Paramount. Di-
rected by Guy Hamilton: Commander Max Eas-
ton, James Mason; Sir Charles Holland, George
Sanders; Virginia Killain, Vera Miles; Minister,
Oliver Johnston; Larkin, Robert Fleming; Tom
(Husband) , William Kendall; First Special
Branch Man, Duncan Lamont; Captain Graham,
Harry Andrews; Sub. Lt. Brown, Peter Bark-
worth; Clare Holland, Rachel Gurney; Clare Hol-
land’s son, Martin Stephens; Clare Holland's
daughter, Waveney Lee; Robert Holland, Charles
Carson; Susan, Junia Crawford; Steward of
Club, Reginald Smith; Wren Officer, Rosemary
Dorken; Jason Parrish, Macdonald Parke; A dele
Parrish, Mavis Villiers; Commander Bates,
Ernest Clark; Admiral, John Le Mesurier: Tom
the Boatman, Sidney Vivian; Landlord. Harry
Locke; Second Special Branch Man, Gordon
Harris; Night Club Singer, Jimmy Lloyd : ^liss
Price, Barbara Hicks; Bunty Balfour, William
Mervyn; Scottish Doctor \ Alexander Archdale;
Russian Officers, Stanley Zevic, Andre Mikhelson,
Richard Marner; American Officers, Lionel Mur-
ton, Guy Kingsley Poynter; Club Members, Hen-
ry Longhurst, Roger Maxwell, Gerald Case.

WRECK OF THE MARY DEARE, THE—
M-G-M. Directed by Michael Anderson: Gideon
Patch, Gary Cooper; John Sands, Charlton Hes-
ton; Mr. Nyland, Michael Redgrave; Sir Wilfred
Falcett, Emlyn Williams: The Chairman, Cecil
Parker; Petrie, Alexander Knox; Janet Taggart,
Viginia McKenna; Higgins, Richard Harris j
Mike Duncan, Ben Wright; Gunderson, Peter
Illing: Frank, Terence de Marney; Burrows,
Ashley Cowan; Yules, (diaries Davis.

Dumors: They do say that Elvis’ father, who has been
with him in Germany, has a new bride in mind. But
I both El and his father emphatically deny it. . . . The un-
i happiness in the Desi Arnaz-Lucille Ball marriage has
I passed the rumor stage. Lucille, I’m told, is seeking guid-
ance from Dr. Norman Vincent Peale, author and church-
i man. Desi says little except he’ll mind the store in Holly-
wood, while Lucille does a play on Broadway next season.
... At M-G-M studios, it’s a race between Ivy Leaguer
George Hamilton and method actor George Peppard to
see which actor attains stardom first. The studio is sold on
both lads but young Hamilton’s second-hand Rolls-Royce,
which once belonged to English Royalty, has reaped him
more publicity. . . . That same M-G-M studio was so eager
to have Eddie Fisher in Liz Taylor’s film. “Butterfield 8,”
they upped the bid to $100,000 and padded his part. And
Eddie, who is busier than ever these days, accepted. . . .
Which reminds me. whispers have it that all was far from
' sweetness and light between Debbie Reynolds and Tony
Curtis on “The Rat Race” set. Could be Tony is taking
his publicity too serious these days. It does happen you
know. . . . Shirley MacLaine solved all her problems.
She’ll spend six months in Japan with her husband Steve,
and he’ll spend 6 months in Hollywood with her. . . . Tom
Trvon is happy over his role in the 20th’s “Story of Ruth.”

A Mystery: Pier Angeli was on the telephone, late one
evening, to her ex-husband Vie Damone in Fresno, when
Vic whispered to a friend to call the Beverly Hills police.
He indicated that Pier was threatening to slash her wrists.
But Pier, surprised and smiling, denied any threat of suicide.
Still, I wonder how true it is that Pier is jealous of Vic’s
new girlfriend, Carolyn Chapman? Even when everything’s
over, doesn’t it hurt to see your guy with another girl?

{ Continued )

Steve jealous.'1 Shirley’s got n nay io make sure he isnt.

Marilyn’s just being neighborly ; Anna Magnani’s fuming.

TV Jottings: Hand
some Dale Robertson

of "Wells Fargo” seems
happy with his third
wife. Lulu Mae Hard-
ing. who comes from
Texas and loves the out-
door life. . . . Robert
Young assures me the
name of his series will
not be changed to
'‘Grandfather Knows
Rest” just because he’s
become one. And a hap-
pier grandfather you
never saw. . , . To my
notion, one of the sights
to which they should
really run excursions, is
feminine Ida Lupino
directing various west-
ern horse oprys. And
Ida does a good job of
it, too. . . . The Bob
Horton English fan
club now has 5000 mem-
bers which is why Bob plans to play London’s Paladium
theater soon. . . . Please tel! me why women stars, with the
exceptions of Dinah Shore, Loretta Young and Ann
Sothern, can’t seem to ring that TV bell on their own shows?

Must Loretta be alone?

June’s unhappy and she wants Dick to do something about it.

Only In Holly-
wood: Anna Mag-
nani is so incensed
over those closeups
of co-star Marlon
Brando in “The
Fugitive Kind.” her
protests can be
heard all the way
from Rome. Rumor
has it that Anna
feels she’s been
badly photographed
and Marlon hasn’t.

. . . Tuesday
W eld showed up
for a local TV in-
terview in her bare Joanna and George Looks serious.
feet and wearing

what seemed to be a nightgown. The seasoned mterviewei
looked frightened and, of course, viewing audiences were
wild-eyed. . . . Edd Byrnes danced with Hei Imperial
Highness, Princess Cecelia of Prussia, at the Waif Ball!
And I wondered, as I watched them glide by, if memories
of those grim days of his early youth passed through
Kookie’s mind. Later, Edd confessed he was so concerned
over his contract hassle with Warner Brothers, he couldn t
enjoy himself: let’s hope it’s a hassle that is settled by this
time. We need “Kookie,” the parking boy at that famous
address “77 Sunset Strip.” . . . And surely in no other town
could such feuders as Kirk Douglas and Kini Novak floai
by in a dreamy waltz as if nothing had happened. And
plenty had. Their trouble began. I’m told, when Kim
attempted to direct Kirk’s scenes in their co-starring film.
“Strangers When We Meet,” with Kirk stomping off the sei
in a big fat rage. Yet, here they were, at the Douglas party
a few evenings later, dancing together in peace-pipe "to
getherness.” . . . Marilyn Monroe whipped up a spaghetti
dinner for herself, her husband Arthur Miller and hei
neighbors in the next Beverly Hills Hotel bungalow, French
star, Simone (“Room at the Top”) Signoret and her

talented husband Yves Montand, And a few' days later.
Simone asked Marilyn to please return the cooking pot
she’d borrowed. She planned a French stew for all of them
And this could happen only in Hollyw'ood.

Parlies: “Come up and see my new paintings. Marlha
Hyer urged editor Evelyn Pain and me. But after the
lovely dinner party, given by producer Ross Hunter in
Evelyn’s honor, we went home, instead, and missed a chance
to view Martha’s collection of originals. A few nights later,
they were all stolen with nary a clue nor a trace. Tony
Randall, itching in his half-grown beard for his role in
“Huckleberry Finn,” and his lovely wife, along with the
head of Universal Studios, Milton Rackmil and his bride
Vivian Blaine, were among the guests. And what a doll
the new Mrs. Rackmil is. And what a delightful host my
friend Ross Hunter is. . . . June Allyson confided, at
Don Loper’s elegant gathering, that she isn’t at all happy
with her new TV series and pouted, “Richard will have to
do something about it.’ Husband Richard Powell is, of
course, one of TV’s Four Star Theater bosses. June, in a
Loper creation of short blue chiffon, looked adorable. And
what a figure!

Martha invited us to have a look. Now, it’s too late.

Mail Box Corner: A note from Warren Berlinger re-
minds me of our meeting on the “Blue Denim” set and his
assurance that TV actress Betty Lou Keim is the only girl
for him. The two met in the Broadway play “A Room Full

of Roses” when Warren was
barely 17. Now that he’s reached
21, the pair will carry their teen-
age romance into marriage. And
I’m all for it. ... A letter from
Sara Wilson of Brookville, In-
diana, suggests she and 1 have
the best first names ever. ... A
sweet note from that promising
star, Diane Baker, wishing me
The Best of Everything because
1 wished the same for her, in
print. . . . And Marilyn Gavran of
the Nelson Eddy Music Club
invites me to write a piece for
their club journal’s 25th anniver-
sary number. Which reminds me
how faithful the Nelson Eddy fans
have been throughout the years.

That feud between Kirk Douglas and Kirn Novak is on again, off again , on again.

Around Town: Ran into cute Joanna Moore pushing her
grocery cart in a Beverly Hills shop, looking rather be-
wildered. “This boy has had me out to dinner several
limes,” she explained, “and I thought I’d cook for him at
my apartment this evening. Will he think maybe I’m rush-
ing him or something?” My answer was to help select the
steak, the vegetables and the dessert. Joanna didn’t say so
but I wondered if maybe the lucky boy wasn’t George
Stevens Jr., her latest beau. . . . Suddenly came upon
Richard Egan in Jack Tavelman’s men’s shop trying on
a new suit while wife Pat Hardy beamed her approval.
Of course, they assured me their son was the greatest baby
ever. And of course, I agreed. Incidentally, rumors of a
new baby, arriving at the Egan home late next spring, are
in the air. Richard stirred up quite a ruckus when he turned
down the 20th Century-Fox movie “From The Terrace.”
But wasn’t he wonderful in “A Summer Place”? . . . Before
they departed for Europe, I spied Claire Bloom and her
bridegroom Rod Steiger in Beverly Hills’ I. Magnins. Claire
admired the silver trays and salad bowls but she couldn’t get
Rod away from the men's department. I Continued )

What do Doris and Rock think of the new Tony Randall ?

Snappers: Actoi Don Burnett is taking no chances on
his marital happiness with wife Gia Seala. When Gia left
for Munich, to make “I Aim at the Stars,” Don canceled
everything and went right along. . . . Dorothy Malone,
the evasive one, admits an heir is on the way. But when
it comes to a question of names or whether the baby will
learn the language of his French father, Jacques Bergerac,
Dorothy grows indignant and walks away. But then. Doro-
thy lias always been like that. . . Rumors of Paul Anka’s
fabulous earnings and rabid fans are fine w'ith me. But
I agree with many readers that our loyalty also belongs to
those stars who gave us such wonderful moments. Such
talented people as Joan and Constance Bennett, Linda
Darnell, Ann Sheridan, Sylvia Sydney, Myrna Loy
and Joan Crawford. These, and so many others, deserve
a place in our hearts.

Thanks for a wonderful time

Myrna Loy

loan Crawford

Sylvia Sydney

Linda Darnell

From Fabe With Love: A giant sized post card from
Fahian, tells me how glad he’ll be to be back in Hollywood
making another movie. And his studio, 20th Century-Fox,
claims that of all the young singers turned actors, Fabe will
rank next to Elvis in lasting popularity. His innate kindness
and humility have a lot to do with it. That I’m sure of.
And the purchase of a new home for his parents in New
Jersey, is proof of thai

WWWWWHVUVWVWWmUWHVWVWWV

I Look Back: Halfway through the movie, “Dancing
Lady, in the year 1933, a tall blond singer, Nelson Eddy,
made an unexpected appearance and the world of worship-
ping fans was never the same. Only on rare occasions,
does any one personality claim such world-wide interest as
did this young concert singer from Providence. Rhode
Island. His teaming with Jeanette MacDonald in
“Naughty Marietta” began a cycle of musical dramas that
literally had the fans spinning. “Rose Marie,” “The Girl
of the Golden West” and “Sweethearts” received such
acclaim, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer rushed their twin gold

mines into "New' Moon” and "Bitter Sweet." Between con-

cert tours, Nelson went on to make other films with other
stars and to wed Mrs. Ann Franklin, after Jeanette mar-
ried Gene Raymond. Their
separate marriages proved a dis-
illusionment to fans who im-
agined a grand romance between
the co-stars. As a result, interest
began to fade and musical
dramas lost their vogue. Today,
between nightclub and concert
dates, Nelson relaxes in Bel-Air.

wvwvvwwwwwvvvwwvvwwvvwwwwwvvwvwwvV

Cal York’s Jottings: The late Victor Mc-

Laglen left a legacy to the art of motion pictures in two
of the finest pictures ever made, “What Price Glory?’ and
“The Informer,” for which Victor won the Academy Award
in 1935. . . . The career of Barrie Chase took a sudden
upswing after the second Fred Astaire TV show Along
with Bing Crosby and Fabian, Barrie is slated for some
fancy capers in the movie “Daddy-O.” . . . Dennis Hopper
vows his beatnik days are over and from now on he’ll
concentrate on his career and his role in “Cimarron.” And
it’s about time. . . . Jimmy Durante and Marjorie Little
will step into wedlock
one day soon and their
friends are delighted.

. . . And don’t be sur-
prised if Anne Fran-
cis and Dr. Robert
Abeloff do likewise. . . .

Congratulations to
Barry Coe and his
lovely Norwegian bride
Jorunn. . . . Jack
Lemmon consoled his
former wife Cynthia
throughout her marital
problems with Cliff
Robertson. The cou-
ple are very devoted
parents to their small
son Chris. . . . The in-
creasing reports on the
Zimhalist marriage
are so off-and-on con-
fusing. I doubt if
either Efrem or Steffi

know where thev are. Miss Norway is Mrs. Barry C

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and received by April 8, 1960.
Only one entry per envelope.

3. Each of the 15 grand prizes
consists of a $1,500 wardrobe
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Jtlontfjlp Eecorb

By GEORGE

Vol. 1. No. 12

January, 1960

have you heard...

What They’re Playing: The King-
ston Trio album, “Here We Go
Again” (Capitol) . . . “Sweet Sounds
by the Browns” ( RCA) . A nice addi-
tion for your country and western
collection. . . . “What A Difference a
Day Makes” (Mercury). It's the
new Dinah Washington, singing!
... “Spike Jones in Hi Fi” (War-
ners ) . A Spooktacular in Screaming
Sound.

What They’re Doing: The Nutty
Squirrels who sing “Uh! Oh!” are
really Don Elliott and Sascha Bur-
land. . . . Fred Darian (“I Be-

Paul flipped in London.

lieved You”) collects early-Ameri-
can maps and Gary Stites (“Starry
Eyed” ) collects custom cars. . . .
Bobby Darin gave June Blair a dia-
mond friendship ring. . . . Dot Har-
mony, who used to hold hands with
Elvis, is now doing it with Sal
Mineo. . . . Jimmy Clanton — isn’t his
“Go Jimmy Go” full of bounce? —
hopes someday he can dress as ele-
gantly as Cary Grant, his idol. . . .
p Pat Wayne’s favorite date is Penny
Parker of the Danny Thomas TV
show. . . . Jerry Fuller, that “Ten-

LOST: ONE STEADY

It’s three for johnny & Co.

'T'hree big hits in a year — that’s
A quite a record, isn’t it? It belongs
to Johnny and the Hurricanes.
Their hits? “Crossfire,” “Red River
Rock” and “Reveille Rock.”

Johnny Paris, a tall (5'11"),
blond with blue eyes, hails from
Rossford, Ohio (so do most of the
Hurricanes). He got his encourage-
ment from his music teachers, Mr.
Rudy and Mr. Perkins — whom he’ll

always remember — and from his
girlfriend — whom he’s now trying
to forget.

“We went steady,” Johnny says.
“We loved to dance or go to the
movies and eat in nice places. And
we had great fun just riding around
in my blue ’53 car. It’s got cracked
windows and a sticky valve and it
leaks oil, but I love it!

“But then she wanted to get mar-
ried right away. I told her we’d
have to wait. She didn’t want to,
so she called the whole thing off.”

Johnny admits he misses his
steady, but he says he’s met some
wonderful girls in his travels. “One
girl baked pizzas for all five of us —
Paul Tesluk, Bo Sovich, Dave Yorko,
Butch Mattice and me. We were in
North Carolina, playing a one-night
stand, and we were lonely. Then she
brought those pizzas over to the
theater. I’ll never forget that.”

nessee Waltz” man, is an amateur
boxer. . . . The newest lingo among
rock ’n’ rollers is “rigor mortis.”
It means “Nothing’s happening.”

What They’re Saying: Right after
my ABC Radio show, “Teen Town,’
I split a soda with the daily guest,
with the talk going like this. Fa-
bian (“Hound Dog Man”) : “I guess
it’ll get out sooner or later, so I
might as well tell you. Before I go
into a recording session, I stand on
my head for five minutes. Honest,

it helps me sing better.” . . . Paul
Anka (“Put Your Head On My
Shoulder”) : “I’m on a clothes kick.
When I was in London, I flipped
for the colored vests the fellows
over there wear. I wish all the guys
here would wear them.” . . . Annette
(“First Name Initial”): “Can any-
body help me with my Civics?
TJgh ! ” . . . Lennon Sisters: “Sure,
sometimes we fight with each other.
We wouldn’t be normal if we
didn’t.” . . . Tab Hunter: “I like a
girl who’ll look me in the eyes.”

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working
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October 26, 1959

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Wi. je jlontfilp Eecorb continued

What’s in the Stars?

I f you first landed on earth between
A Dec. 23 and Jan. 20, you belong
under the tenth sign of the zodiac.
That’s Capricorn, just like: Elvis
Presley (Jan. 8), Sal Mineo (Jan.
10), Marlene Dietrich (Dec. 27),
Ava Gardner (Dec. 24), Richard
Widmark (Dec. 26), Cary Grant
and Danny Kaye (Jan. 18).

People like you because they can
depend on you. You're diligent, will-
ing to work hard, absolutely un-
movable if you think you’re right
in an argument. Tou're practical
about money and like to see your
bank savings grow. You could be a
leader — only you're not overly am-
bitious and so you often stand back
and let others lead you.

In romance, you believe people
must accept you as you are. You re-
luse to “put on a show” to attract
somebody. There’s lots of love in
your heart, but your mind holds you
back from releasing it. Whoever
wins you in mar-
riage will have to
be patient, because
you don't like rush-
ing into something
so sacred. You
want to be sure.

And here’s a tip
about Capricorn
men: They may be slow to get in-
terested, but they’re loyal to the
end.

Don’t let all the trifles of life
depress you. You take things much
too personally
sometimes. You’ve
a down-to-earth
sense of humor
that surprises peo-
ple. because of your
usually serious
manner. You mel-
low as you grow
older and, if you’re good-looking
to begin with, you’ll grow even
more attractive with the passing
years. That’s something to look for-
wardto,huh? Yourluckv number’s 8.

PUZZLE

ACROSS

2. Singer of the month (pictured)

5. "We Got Love/7 says he

8. She sings "If I Give My Heart to You"

9. Top (record label)

10. Phil and Don

12. Eydie Gorme's guy
14. In the Army now

DOWN

1. “The Bells"

3. "Lonely Street's" his address

4. "Body and "

5. The "Woo-Hoo" gang

6. She sings "Don't You Know"

7. She likes "Tiny Tim"

11. Her name's like a general's

13. " I Kissed You"

CONGRATULATIONS

The lucky winners of our Keely Smith-Louis
Prima contest are:

FIRST PRIZE — RCA Victor Portable Stereo
Victrola: Rita Czeiner, Spring City, Pa.

SECOND PRIZE — $25 package of seven
Keely-Louis albums: Mrs. Roger L. Warren,
Charlotte, South Carolina.

THIRD PRIZE (Turned out to be a tie!) —
$10 package of three albums by Keely-Louis:
Gertrude Hirschenson, Miami, Florida, and
Jean Burke, Louisville, Kentucky.

Everyone who entered received a good-luck
charm from Keely and Louis, and also auto-
graphed photos and free membership in the
Louis-Keely National Fan Club.

Comer

Here's your first newsletter from

Shari Sheeley, teenage songwriter

TTi Gang: Have 1 been lucky. To
start I went with Jet Powers —
have you heard him on Silver Rec-
ords?— to the big annual Sheriff’s
Rodeo in the Los Angeles Goliseum.
We were watching the calf roping,
when all of a sudden 1 heard this tre-
mendous screaming behind us. I
turned and asked some of the girls
if perhaps they saw something I was
missing (I’m very near-sighted).
“It’s Fabian,” they shouted, “right
down there.” Well, I fumbled in my
grab-bag (purse) for my glasses,
and sure enough, there he was,
wearing a red plaid cowboy shirt,
brown hat and levis. . . . Saw Rick
Nelson in Tops Restaurant, for the
first time since the night of my sis-
ter Mary Jo’s birthday party. He
looked great. . . . Wow, Sal Mineo
and a few of the guys around town
are sporting these crazy mountain
hats. And speaking of fads, the new
one seems to be guns. Eddie Cochran
got the bug when he saw Rick prac-
ticing quick-draws. Now, Phil and
Don Everly are at it. too. . . . Boy,
how rumors fly. Got the straight
scoop on the Marianne Gaba and
Fabian romance. Strictly friendship
with these two. Fabe doesn’t like to
date gals older than he is (16) and
Marianne’s 20. . . . Met Connie
Stevens a short time ago, and she
told me that she was keeping her
fingers crossed that her new record,
“Joey,” would hit. Romance? She
said Gary Clark’s still her steady. —
See you next month. Shari.

P.S. Thought for the Month:

Be loyal and true
To friends who trust in you.

For friendship is a treasure
That only time can measure.

Danny’s loyal.

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find Sta-Puf at your favorite grocer's.

■

A. E. Staley Mfg. Co., Decatur, Illinois

Automatic Washer shown is a Sears Lady Kenmore

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE FOR THE NEW YEAR?

What did you like in this issue?

Here's all you have to do. Please fill out the ballot on this page and mail it
immediately to Reader's Poll, Photoplay, 205 East 42nd Street, New York 17, N. Y. If
yours is among the first hundred answers received, we'll send you — as a token of our
thanks — an autographed photo of your favorite star.

i|l!lllll!llllll!llllll!lllllllllll!lllllllllllll!IIIM

5 (i)

| (2)

(3)

1 (4)

WHAT CURRENT FAVORITES DO YOU LIKE?

I want to read stories about (please check names):

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE IN
PHOTOPLAY?

ACTOR

(1) Elvis Presley

(15) Everly Brothers

(29) Jerry Lewis

(2) Rick Nelson

(16) Frankie Avalon

(30) Jimmie Rodgers

(3) Rock Hudson

(17) Barry Coe

(31) Kingston Trio

(4) Tommy Sands

(18) Marlon Brando

(32) Roger Smith

(5) Pat Boone

(19) Duane Eddy

(33) Clint Walker

(6) John Saxon

(20) Paul Anka

(34) Dale Robertson

(7) Tony Curtis

(21) James Darren

(35) George Nader

(8) Tab Hunter

(22) Troy Donahue

(36) Eddie Fisher

(9) James Garner

(23) Perry Como

(37) Bob Horton

(10) Paul Newman

(24) Tony Perkins

(38) Ty Hardin

(11) Nick Adams

(25) James Arness

(39) Edd Byrnes

(12) Dick Clark

(26) Robert Wagner

(40) Fabian

(13) Peter Brown

(27) Will Hutchins

(41) Jack Kelly

(14) Sal Mineo

(28) Dion & the Belmonts

(42) Bob Evans

ACTRESS

(1) Debbie Reynolds

(14) Brigitte Bardot

(27) Connie Stevens

(2) Liz Taylor

(15) Leslie Caron

(28) May Britt

(3) Carol Lynley

(16) Marilyn Monroe

(29) Patti Page

(4) Natalie Wood

(17) Dorothy Malone

(30) Connie Francis

5) Dolores Hart

(18) Christine Carere

(31) Hope Lange

(6) Doris Day

(19) Jean Simmons

(32) Lennon Sisters

(7) Kim Novak

(20) Shirley MacLaine

(33) Dinah Shore

(8) Janet Leigh

(21) Deborah Kerr

(34) Audrey Hepburn

(9) Sandra Dee

(22) Sophia Loren

(35) Tuesday Weld

(10) Joanne Woodward

(23) Molly Bee

(36) Dodie Stevens

(11) Jayne Mansfield

(24) Annette Funicello

(37) Millie Perkins

(12) Gale Storm

(25) Ingrid Bergman

(38) Others you like

(13) Carolyn Jones

(26) Diane Jergens

ini hi (ini mi iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii mini mill mu in in

WHICH SUPER-STARS DO YOU LIKE BEST?

■

1 want PHOTOPLAY

to tell me all about (check

names of stars below):

ACTOR

(1) Robert Montgomery

(11) Kirk Douglas

(21) Bing Crosby

(2) Fred Astaire

(12) Henry Fonda

(22) John Payne

(3) Joel MacRae

(13) Gregory Peck

(23) Ronald Reagan

(4) Burt Lancaster

(14) Robert Mitchum

(24) Roy Rogers

(5) Paul Muni

(15) Charlton Heston

(25) Yul Brynner

(6) Glenn Ford

(16) William Holden

(26) Frank Sinatra

(7) John Garfield

(17) Peter Lawford

(27) James Stewart

(8) Humphrey Bogart

(18) Van Johnson

(28) Robert Taylor

(?) Clark Gable

(19) Alan Ladd

(29) John Wayne

(10) Gary Cooper

(20) David Niven

(30) Cary Grant

ACTRESS

■

(1) Norma Shearer

(9) Lana Turner

(17) Jane Russell

(2) Joan Crawford

(10) Susan Hayward

(18) Gene Tierney

(3) Irene Dunne

(11) June Allyson

(19) Esther Williams

(4) Greta Garbo

(12) Claudette Colbert

(20) Jane Wyman

(5) Ann Sheridan

(13) Ava Gardner

(21) Loretta Young

(6) Dorothy Lamour

(14) Betty Grable

(22) Shirley Temple

(7) Hedy Lamarr

(15) Rita Hayworth

(23) Bette Davis

(8) Grace Kelly

(16) Ginger Rogers

(24) Others you like

Others

If mine is one of the first 100 answers,

Most Popular Instrumentalist

The driving, lonely twanging of his guitar speaks up for
Duane Lddy, who’s got lots to say, but is often too shy.
Born April 26, 1938, in Corning, N.Y.. reared in Phoenix,
Ariz., he's (• feet, married, has a year-old son. Mis hits on
Jamie; "Rebel Houser.” “Movin’ and Groovin',” “The
Lonelv One.” “Cannonball.” “Forty Miles of Bad Road.”

ROCK HUDSON

Continued from page 49

he enjoyed it. Afterwards, he tries to kid
me out of my mood and you know Rock,
when he starts teasing, you can’t be mad.
But this morning — well— I thought maybe
I’d just stay mad. . . . This morning the
alarm clock went off at nine-fifteen, in the
white bedroom with the newly painted
yellow wardrobe and the big oak chest
and the newly hung white drapes in the
house at Lido. I heard him yawn and I
peeked in the room. He’d reached over
and turned the alarm off, automatically,
you know. And then he’d turned over in
that king-sized bed to catch a few more
winks. But he had things to do — places to
go — so I couldn’t allow that. I started tug-
ging at his pajama sleeve, trying to rout
him out of bed. And did he appreciate it?
He did not! He practically barked at me!
That’s the last time I’m going to care if
he’s late or not, I told myself, and started
out of the room. Let him find his own
slippers. Let him crawl under the bed
and get them!

But then I heard him flip the switch
that sends torero music soaring, beating,
stomping through the whole place. The
wildest mariachi band in Mexico in stereo-
phonic sound. It’s been installed one
month now and Rock’s always tinkering
with it, with the twin speakers in the bed-
room and the twin speakers in the living
room and the two out in the room that’s
being built flanking the patio. The sound
is fine, if you ask me, but there’s just too
much of it. But Rock is always hearing
something slightly off. So he’s tinkering
with the set again.

I tell you that guy’s crazy about music.
Crazy! He has thousands of records— and
no filing system — and from the moment
he wakes up in the morning, to the time
he goes to bed, the place is filled with
sound. Sometimes we argue about it.
Sometimes I don’t think I can stand an-
other note. He turns it up so it blasts like
a rocket (that’s when I go wild), turns it
down so you can hear every instrument
gone miniature, finally turns it so you are
in the concert hall, closer, in the heart of
the orchestra with the drums against your
flesh. It’s great if you like music, which,
as I say, sometimes I do and sometimes I
don’t. This torero makes my blood jump.
I'm all for dancing.

But this morning I’m sulking. I wouldn’t
dance for anybody — especially not
Rock! But then, when he came out of

his room with a grin on his face and his
hair all rumpled — one piece of it hanging
down over his eyes — my heart began to
melt. By the time he’d started scrubbing
his teeth in time to the music, I was com-
pletely thawed out again. But I know —
I know — he’s going to be exactly as
grouchy tomorrow morning. That’s the
way he is. He hates to go to bed at night
and he hates to get up in the morning. . . .

The water comes looping out of the
mouth of a fierce gold dragon. Half the
houses on Lido have brass fish fixtures.
Every place Rock’s taken me there are
brass dragons and dolphins spouting
water. All very fishy because Lido is
practically in the sea — street after street
of square, clean lovely houses with tile
roofs making a red and white island in
the bay.

The air is all scrubbed with salt sea
wind. Rock likes that. He takes a couple
of lungsful at the open window, splashes
his face with cold water and I bring him
a big flame-colored bath towel on which
to rub it dry.

And then he bounces back into his bed-
room emerging, finally, in sage-green worn
cords and a black and white checked shirt
— not what I’d expect a movie star to wear
— and he comes out barefoot to make cof-
fee. He likes to make his own coffee. And
I don’t drink coffee, which he doesn’t un-
derstand. He can’t imagine anyone not
drinking it. The kitchen is spotless, all
cocoa and beige with a built-in oven and
the white china sparkling; and Rock grins
and admits that his maid was down yester-
day and got everything in apple pie order.
“She comes Mondays and Fridays and
gets me straightened out after one week-
end and ready for the next one. You re-
member that turkey we had when you
came along on the boat with Don Burnett
and Gia Scala?” I remembered the turkey.
The maid had cooked it and all the trim-
mings and all that had to be done was
heat and eat. I remember, especially, be-
cause Rock won’t let me in the galley.
He’s pretty fussy about that galley and
once I knocked over a jar of fruit salad
and we had an awful mess.

But he isn’t thinking about that now.
He’s stopped a moment, right in the middle
of talking to me, and is thumbing through
“Horizon,” with its magnificent art illus-
trations from some Florentine collection
in Europe, then glancing at “Sport” Maga-
zine.

This is something that bugs me. I spend
half my life waiting — for Rock — and Rock
doesn’t notice because he doesn’t mind
waiting. Time means nothing to him. He’ll
read or listen to music while he’s waiting
for someone . . . he’ll wait patiently for

me while I go turning over sea shells on
the beach. He has plenty to see and plenty
to think about while he waits, I guess,
because the nervousness seems to have
gone out of him. I can remember when
Rock was restless and had a lot of nervous
gestures. Not now. He smokes too much —
I think — but he has no nervous gestures
and even smoking he inhales slowly and
savors it. Like a cigarette ad.

But then, abruptly, he stops looking at
the magazine, and comes over to me.
“How silky it is,” he says, rumpling
my long red hair, and his voice is all sort
of soft and husky. And I start to shiver
just a little — deliciously — and think, well,
no matter how long he makes me wait
around for him, it’s worth it really. And
I look up at him for the hundredth time,
enjoying that handsome head and that
funny Adam’s apple. He peels an orange
now, eating it slowly while he’s waiting
for coffee, offering me a quarter of the
fruit. (That funny Adam’s apple wobbles
up and down as he swallows.) In his hand,
glistening, the orange looks as if he might
have picked it off the Randolph Brooks’
still life, which hangs on the wall just
inside the entrance, with green grapes and
melon slices that look real enough to make
your mouth water — if you like fruit, which
I don’t. . . .

Rock is a great one for paintings. Some
day the great white wall, that extends
from living room to dining room, will be
filled with them, at least that’s what
he says, and he may be right because he’s
been buying things for the house like mad.
In fact, that’s what we spend most of the
days doing, shopping for the house. On
one wall of the living room, he has the
fourteen-foot couch from “Pillow Talk,”
the one with the center that could zip out
into a bed. He says he’s had that all re-
upholstered and that the bed isn’t there
any more. That’s what he says. Bed or
no, it’s the most comfortable sofa in Amer-
ica, and I love to stretch out on it and
just close my eyes and dream a little while
Rock drinks his coffee. He smells so good.
Of soap and shaving lotion and coffee. I
think he likes me near him. He doesn’t
say much but he reaches out his left arm
and gathers me close, and music or no
music, it’s divine.

Rock likes to go about barefooted, but
before we go off to work on his boat, he
slips into sandals. Then he tucks in his
shirt and we’re ready to go. Does he look
all right? he says. And how do you an-
swer this? I’d expect a movie star to wear
suede pants and a raw-silk shirt but he
looks wonderful towering over you, broad-
shouldered, relaxed, with a look — I must
confess — I’ve only seen since he’s moved
down here. It’s a carefree, refreshed look
that comes with being near the sea. I feel
it too.

I keep close to him, trying to stay in
step, as we stride along Via Lido Nord,
breathing the air. Sometimes he gives my
shoulder a little pat. He is a man who
hasn’t lost touch. He pats little kids’ heads,
he shakes hands firmly; his hands are
warm and sensitive and they speak for
him. He whistles a little and says hello
to someone who says “Hello, Mr. Hudson.”
Then we’re at the bay and before us is
the saucer-like blue water with boats
along the edge and boats out as far as you
can see, swaying at anchor or swinging
in their slips.

Some men, looking at the sea, get a far-
away dreamy look but Rock looks at it
and then at me with fire in his eyes, as
if the sea’s a challenge and he can’t wait
to race and meet it. “I’d like to sail
around the world. Want to go with me?”
he says, knowing perfectly well I’m no
sailor. “I’d love to go to Tahiti and New
Orleans. I'd like to go from here to the

Paul Anka— Tuesday Weld

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Caribbean and then to New Orleans and
up the Mississippi to Chicago and, before
we hit Chicago, I’d want the masts in
place again so every drawbridge on the
river’d have to go up!”

Oh yes, I’d have to be with him for
that. And when I look up, he leans over
and brushes my face with his own.

Then down the wooden planks we go,
Rock chatting with the skipper, who
takes care of the boat. Then we’re
aboard. Rock goes aboard, as he always
does, as if it were the first time and he
can’t quite believe it’s his. But it is. He
lifts the canvas bags to see the gleaming
chrome and brass, scoops up the pillows
scattered aft and stows them below so
he and the skipper can paint. I’m practical-
ly forgotten and I hate that. “Here, put on
your sweater,” he says, tossing over the
white-cord one that he bought me a
few weeks ago. “Can’t have you catching
a cold now, can we?” He helps me on with
it. I’m supposed to amuse myself while
he’s totally absorbed in puttering about
with white paint. Well, I thought to my-
self, snuggling down in my sweater, what
are you going to do? Rock’s like that.

He likes doing things himself. He’s a
movie star and he loves to work, but I
honestly don’t think he likes a movie star’s
life. As I watch him at work, his hands
with a life of their own, I feel he’s happi-
est here, working on his boat with the
skipper, who’s Australian, with a thin
British accent and a thin disdainful sort
of English nose, but he’s not disdainful at
all. He likes working with Rock and the
two of them, barefoot again, with their
buckets of white paint, work methodically
and patiently, one on either side of the
cabin.

“We should never change the color,
should we?” says Rock, looking around.
The green hull is rich with the black rail
and white cabin.

The skipper agrees. So do I. He shows us
every Newporter in the bay, the all white,
the white with blue trim, the black. Rock’s
green is richest. It’s romantic and with
the Arabic name Khairuzan in gold, it
might be a romantic galley of long ago.

When I think of a galley I realize I’m
hungry. Suddenly, I’m starved. But Rock
is oblivious, talking about next weekend’s
cruise to Catalina. I can come along if I
wish — I do not wish, 1 only wish my lunch!

Finally, I get purely and simply impa-
tient and start pacing back and forth, back
and forth. For a moment he’s angry, he’s
rubbing the side of his nose in that way
he has, when he’s annoyed. He doesn’t
anger quickly and when I see the color
begin creeping up his throat and see his
brow wrinkle, I get a little scared. I am
hungry, I am impatient, but I don’t want
him angry. Not really. He’s started to
clean his brush now and I stand behind
him as he squats on deck. His back is
warm against me, and he’s forgiving me,
I know, I can feel the tenseness slacken,
even though he doesn’t say anything to me,
even if he is talking to the skipper about
the boat races at Ensenada. He knows I’m
there. He knows. And at last he finishes his
methodical brush cleaning and we’re off
to town, down main street en route to the
Blue Dolphin, his favorite restaurant.

The redheaded waitress glares at me
and I glare back. My hair is natural; but
she’s adorable to Rock and he asks her
what shall he eat, French toast or crab
salad? And she laughs and says did he
Pave breakfast or not, if not— French toast.
I suppose she’s a very nice waitress, it’s
just that I can’t bear to share him and of
course that’s the wrong approach with
Rock, so I know to hold my tongue. And
the French toast is beautiful, all puffed
jp, light as a feather. Rock gives me a
life. He knows I always want a bite and

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He eats at this restaurant all the time.
He has pork sausage and two cups of
steaming coffee, and shakes his head
again because I don’t drink it. He can’t
understand people not liking the usual
things . . . coffee, oranges, ice cream. “Can
you imagine anyone not liking ice cream?”
I can’t! “We’ll have a hot fudge sundae
later,” he says.

I love to watch him eat. He cuts every-
thing neatly, in rather small bites, but he
chews with real enjoyment all over his
face. And when he takes a swig of coffee,
he leans back in his chair, tilts the chair
and pushes his chest out and really
breathes. And he grins at me easily, not
with that clenched grin he uses when he’s
on stage facing an audience, but the grin
that starts at the corners of his eyes and
twitches his nose and turns up the edges
of his lips.

After lunch we go around the corner to
the gift and glass shop, just to look. This
is where he buys gifts for the people who
invite us to dinner. He studies a teak
bowl thoughtfully and wonders if Claire
Trevor Brenn would like it for a hat.
There are handsome leather yardsticks
hanging on the wall, blue, yellow, red and
white. “For the man who has everything,”
the clerk says.

“For the man who has everything — a
shot of penicillin,” Rock says.

We’re still laughing when we come out
of the shop, close together, Rock looking
down at me with the look that makes me
melt. I can see the afternoon opening into
a beautiful lazy vista on the beach — just
Rock and me on the cool, lonely sand and
the waves washing. . . . But he turns, in-
stead, into an art gallery, run by an elderly
German couple. More pictures. Some-
times I hate pictures. Rock walks slowly
about the room studying them. He’s come
a long way from the Winnetka hid who
climbed on top of the church roof with
the other kids to watch the art classes at
Community Center. Now art is something
else, a wonder, a beauty to live with. Is
it possible I’m jealous of some lifeless oil
paintings and old pieces of statuary? Rock
stops short before the wooden statue of a
man and his dog. The man is wearing a
gold toga of some sort, the carving is deli-
cate.

“What is the history of this statue?” Rock
asks the elderly gentleman in charge, and
the man peers over his glasses and says in
broken English that this is the statue of a
saint.

“Which saint?”

“Saint Rock.”

Rock flushes up to his thatch of dark
hair. He thinks the man is being funny.
“What do you mean?” he says.

“The patron saint of all dogs,” the man
answers, getting down a much thumbed -
through book, turning its soft pages until
he finds: St. Roche. Roek laughs heartily.
So do I. The old gentleman is playing no
joke, he doesn’t even recognize Rock.

“Do you ever see movies?” Rock asks.
“No,” laughs the man. “Nein.” He looks
at me and laughs, not knowing just why.

“I would like the statue. I’d like it made
into a lamp. Can you run the wiring up
behind so the statue is not defaced in any
way?”

“Very gutt,” the man says.

It takes forever to pick the lamp-shade.
I am restless and walk about the gallery
but Rock and the old gentleman and the
old gentleman’s wife don’t seem to notice.
They try dozens of different lamp shades,
and talk about materials and texture.

I would have to get involved with some-
one who always has a dozen projects
going. I wish, just for a moment, that
Rock would act like a movie star and let

secretaries and business managers and
personal shoppers, et cetera, take care of
the endless details of his house and boat
and car so that he would have more time
for me. Aren’t I selfish?! But we could be
on the beach this minute or curled up on
the couch at home. He could be whisper-
ing things to me. . . . He could be brushing
my hair. . . .

“Now, that didn’t take long, did it?"
Rock says cheerfully. Ha! I think. “Well,
I had to check out that St. Roche detail.”
he apologizes.

Next stop, the record shop where we
pick up the score of “Gypsy” and Wolf-
Ferrari’s “Quattro Rusteghi” and Rubin-
stein playing the “Rachmaninoff Concerto
No. 2” and Beethoven’s “Eroica” and a
Frank Sinatra album — all in stereo

What is so absolutely, profoundly fas-
cinating, I wish I knew, about records,
boats and art? The kind of art I like best
is those pictures Rock keeps taking of me.
But you can’t argue with him. He’s so
interested in everything others do. He’s
so genuinely interested in everything 1
do, too. So how can I ever tell him I get
impatient — annoyed — that I get a little
tired, sometimes, just following him
around?

We pick up his car and he is perfectly
gallant, opens the door, sees me in, closes
the door and comes around to slip in be-
side me. He likes me to lean against him
as we drive and I catch a whiff, again, of
after-shave lotion and warm skin. I close
my eyes. The next thing I know, when I
open my eyes, we’re at Will Wright’s and
Rock hops out of the car and demolishes a
hot fudge sundae with a chocolate soda tor
chaser. This should kill dinner at his
friends’, but doesn’t.

His friends are dolls. They have the
loveliest white house on the island and they
adore Rock and take me as a matter ol
course, they sort of expect me to be with
Rock. I hope — how I hope — he feels the
same way — always. And after dinner, we
go sailing out on the dazzling black water.
There’s plenty of talk. Rock steers and
keeps one arm around me because I’m a
little chilly and the wind is blowing my
hair about. And when we get back and
the boat is made fast for the night, Rock,
who has always been a night owl, the guy
who liked staying up all night, is sound
asleep in his own bed at nine-thirty. As
if the sea had rocked him an irresistible
lullaby.

So maybe it won’t be so hard getting
him up tomorrow after all. It wasn’t the
end of a perfect evening for me because
I go over to my bed, thinking a little wist-
fully about the old days when a night with
Rock lasted until 3 a.m., when there
weren’t any boats. I kind of liked those
days, myself. But, well, if Rock’s happier-,
this way, then that’s all that really mat-
ters. ...

And there’s no question about it — I know
Rock’s happier these days. How do I
know? How, for that matter, do I know
all these things about him? Well, you see,
my name’s Tucker — and I’ve been with
Rock since I was just a pup, when Vera
Ellen introduced us. So that’s why, when
Rock treats me like a dog sometimes, I
really can’t complain, because, well. 1
am . . .

—TUCKER as told to JANE ARDMORE

SEE ROCK HUDSON IN “PILLOW TALK” FOR U.I.

PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS
John Saxon color by John Bez; Tab Hunter color
by Globe Photos ; Annette Funicello and Paul Anka
color by Topix; Shirley Temple by Pictorial Parode
and Culver Service ; Fabian by Topix ; Kim Novak
by Gene Dauber.

DONNA REED

Continued from page 55

had what I’d call a happy marriage— that
once in a while there’s some bitterness
within that sweet magic potion.

“I hadn’t thought much about marriage
before I met Tony. It’s funny now, when
I think about it, but I didn’t think very
much of Tony when I first met him, either.
He had just come out of the Army and
was working for a talent agency. We
bumped into each other at his office, said
hello, and I didn’t think about him twice
after that. In those days, I had my head in
the clouds over my career. But you can’t
substitute a career for deep love. Tony
confessed, later, that as soon as he saw
me, he knew I was the girl he was going
to marry — but I didn’t know it.

“When he became my agent, we had busi-
ness dealings together, and I’d have to talk
to him often. We fought like cats and dogs,
because I reasoned Tony should listen to
my suggestions about contracts since I’d
been in the film business longer than he.
Sometimes he’d call and say M-G-M
wanted me to make a certain movie, and
I’d rant like mad. ‘You read the script,’
I’d say, raising my voice, ‘and you agreed
it was terrible!’

“But Tony, angel that he is, wouldn’t
get mad. He’d just say, ‘Okay, Donna, I’m
with you. Take it easy now.’ After a while,
I wondered if I didn’t sound a little petu-
lant, even bra tty. Finally, when he called
me one day and asked me to go to a
premiere with him, I decided maybe I
should. After that things just kind of fell
into place. I’m sure marriage counselors
would have said we had no chance from
the very start. Why? Because, once we
started dating, I realized Tony and I were
opposites — but completely!

Tony was crazy about sports — football,
basketball, anything athletic — and I
shuddered at the thought of them. I
adored the theater and concerts, but he
couldn’t sit still watching a show or a
conductor. Tony’s extremely outgoing, al-
ways friendly, he likes to be with dozens
of people, while I’m more reserved, more
of a stay-at-home. He thinks nothing of
sitting down to dinner with twenty-five
people. As a matter of fact, he likes it. He
enjoys being with people, but I always feel
a little funny with large groups. I always
wonder what all the people are like and
if I can get along with them. Tony doesn’t
think about those things. He just enjoys
being in good company.

“So, you see, we started off at opposite
ends. Tony was quick, garrulous, easy-
going. I was quiet (except when I hollered
at Tony about bad scripts), withdrawn,

shy in crowds. Tony came from the big j
cities— he grew up in Chicago, worked
there as Amusement Editor for the Daily
News. But I came 1 from an Iowan farm.
My Mom and Dad, God bless them, had to
struggle to make things meet. My brothers
and sisters and myself all knew how to
milk the cows and drive the tractors and
bake bread. We were a happy family, but
we were retiring. We never got out into
the big-city world at all.

“I learned to live through lots of crises,
during those days in Iowa, and maybe,
in a way, that’s why I’m not as easygoing
as Tony. He’s more matter-of-fact about
life. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how Mom
and Dad would stake their fortune on a
crop, and maybe that season there wouldn’t
be any rain or too much rain, and our
corn and wheat fields would either dry up
or be ruined by floods. I remember, one
year, when there was a drought. All our
animals were dying because of their thirst.
It’s the most pitiful sound in the world,
hearing fifty barnyard animals sob for
water. That drought lasted for nearly
twelve years. We had planted tiny ever-
greens the year of the drought. They were
one foot high, and we didn’t want them
to die for lack of water. So we kids would
carry water from miles away to save them,
and now, today, they’re big and tall and
strong. Maybe that’s why some of the more
difficult moments of marriage don’t make
me feel that the world is coming to an
end — because I lived through those ter-
rible days of drought and depression.

“Dad always used to tell us to have con-
fidence, to remember there was a God in
this world and that He would help — ulti-
mately, if not immediately.

“Confidence is important in marriage.
Once — and it wasn’t too long ago, either —
Tony and I had an important crisis. We
were separated for over three months, not
because we wanted it that way, but be-
cause Tony was busy producing a picture
for Columbia in Europe. I stayed in Hol-
lywood because I had to look after our
children — Tim, Tony Jr., and Penny Jane.
Little Mary wasn’t born then. Each month,
while he was away, passed like a year. I
liked looking after the children, yes, but
I just felt so alone, and I had a horrible
feeling Tony would never come back to us,
that maybe he might meet someone else
over there and forget about us com-
pletely. It sounds foolish, I know, but it’s
true. Your mind can play awful tricks on
you. Maybe it’s because we women have
to sit home and do the waiting.

“I didn’t have too many friends in
Hollywood because Tony and I were close
and I was just loo busy raising our three
children. I just wasn't very active socially.
Well, you may laugh, but if I didn’t have
my hobby to busy myself with I’d probably
have gone crazy from worry and loneli-
ness. A woman must have other interests

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besides her home. I’m a shutterbug. So I j
took pictures every day: pictures of the !
children for Tony to enjoy when he came I
home, pictures of our white stucco house j !
with its wooden shutters, pictures of flow-
ers and potted plants and sunsets. I was \
afraid that if I brooded too long about j j
Tony not being with us, I’d let my crying |
upset the children. I couldn’t let the chil-
dren know how much I missed Tony, be-
cause then how could I have comforted :
them when they said they missed him?

“Of course, Tony wrote regularly, and i j
I wrote him, but being all alone with the
three children frightened me. Children |
need a father. There were times that Tony , i
Jr. would ask me things and all I could
say was, ‘Tony, this is something your Dad
can answer better than I,’ but — well, I’d
try to figure out something to say to him , i
and hope it would satisfy his curiosity.

“Then, when Tony came back from f
Europe, I told him I just couldn’t go ii
through such loneliness or anguish again. |i
He didn’t seem to be nearly as upset as 'i
I was over our separation, but I think men i
aren’t as possessive as women. So we talked >:
a long while and decided it was time for
us to participate more fully in community :
life: PTA, church, civic affairs. If Tony (i
were called away again on business, then
I’d have some work in the community to j;
keep me busy.

“I was bound and determined — if we |;
could do it — never to let such a long sepa- j
ration come between us again. But, then,
a year later, the strangest thing hap-
pened. We came to a point in our mar-
riage where I wondered if. . .

It happened in the kitchen, one night, [,
after the children had fallen asleep. We
were having coffee and, suddenly, the ■
two of us got carried away with imagina- |
tive flights of fancy. Tony said if he hadn’t j
gotten married, he might have realized his
dream to see the world. And I, being j
hypersensitive, began thinking maybe our !
marriage wasn’t really important to him, !
so I sulked and badgered myself into be- !
lieving that Tony and I had ’t had a hap-
py marriage if this is wi.u he wanted.
All women feel this sometimes. I’m told,
but I didn’t know this. It’s better for him
to see the world than to be confined to our
two-story house on Alpine Drive, I kept
telling myself.

“The more I thought about it the more I
became insulted, and at one point, I
actually thought he’d be happier if I left
him. How silly I was! Women don’t under-
stand men sometimes; their funny moods,
their unexpected conversations, their out-
going attitude towards life.

“Finally, some weeks later, after a lot of
resentment had built up in me, I con-
fronted Tony with his comment about see-
ing the world. I was on the verge of tears
and I babbled uncontrollably about how
maybe we never should have gotten mar-
ried if that was all he cared about, and I
told him if he wanted his freedom so badly
he could have it! I’d leave him! Within
minutes I was sobbing desperately, and
all I had to do, once I wiped the tears
away, was to look into Tony’s bright-blue
eyes and I knew, deep down in my heart,
why I married Tony and why Tony mar-
ried me. We were in love. It was as sim-
ple as that.

“Tony put his arms around me and said,
‘Darling, why do you take everything so
to heart? You know how I am. I talk off
the top of my head.’

“And I realized then, that this was one
of the things that had attracted me to
Tony, the fact that he wasn’t afraid to say
what he felt. I’d always hold things back,
and I was crazy about the way he spoke
out on any subject that was on his mind.
He was never afraid to reveal his thoughts,
whether they were fleeting or deep, and

I always wished I could be like him. Isn’t
it odd how, sometimes, we turn these very
things we like in a person into things that
upset us? Maybe it’s because we try to
change them into our image. And this is
wrong. People should remain themselves
and maintain their individuality even
though they’re bound together in holy
matrimony. If Tony changed and became
like me, then I’d probably not like him at
all. I’d think he was a weakling. And if I
changed and became like him, I’m sure
I’d have lost some of the reserve he found
attractive in me.”

Donna took a breath, fingered the slender
gold wedding-band on the third finger of
her left hand. She wore a square-cut dia-
mond ring, too. “Tony just gave it to me,”
she smiled, “for our fifteenth wedding an-
niversary this June. He gave it to me a few
months early,” she explained, “because I
was so broken-hearted over losing the en-
gagement ring he originally gave me.

“Perhaps I’ve been giving a one-sided
picture of marriage. The good side is easy
to know. Let’s face it, there’s nothing as
wonderful as marriage, the joys as well as
the sorrows, two people sharing their lives
together, forever. But I think it’s wrong to
make young people feel that marriage is
easy. It isn’t.

“I’ve learned that there’s always a way
of working a problem out if marriage
means enough to the two people involved.
I’ve learned, too, that in marriage you just
can’t be selfish and think of me, me, me
all the time. Tony had to travel to Europe
again on business, and I tried to be under-
standing about it. He didn’t stay as long,
and I didn’t let myself get into that shat-
tering depression that upset me so during
his first long trip. When he returned, we
talked some more and we decided maybe
it would be nice if we could work things
out so that, when he made a film abroad,
the children and I could go with him if it

were during the summer. Then, that sum-
mer, Tony told me how lonely he’d been,
too, when he spent those three months in
Europe. He didn’t know many people and
he was always having dinner alone in his
hotel room. And all the while I had been
imagining Tony in Paris at a small restau-
rant being wined and dined, and looking
so darned attractive. . . Sometimes our
woman’s imagination is to blame. We let it
work overtime — and most of the time to
our disadvantage.

But men are men, and, I guess, we wom-
en will never understand them com-
pletely. Then we went to Europe to-
gether, and when we came back, we were
in wonderful spirits. But that Christmas,
there was a big studio party for all the
crew and cast on the TV show. Tony didn’t
arrive on time at the studio. He was busy
mapping out a business thing. Everyone
was with their husband or wife, and I
felt kind of funny, being alone at a Christ-
mas party. We exchanged small presents
and drank eggnog and sang carols, but I
just didn’t feel comfortable without Tony
there, even though I knew everyone well.
I guess if you’re used to having a man
near your side, you just don’t feel right
if, suddenly, you’re all by yourself at a
party.

“I couldn’t imagine what was keeping
Tony. Then, after we had a buffet supper
of turkey and salad, Tony arrived. I put
down my plate and ran to him, threw my
arms out and said, ‘Hi, darling!’ And do
you know what? He seemed embarrassed.
And I realized he was ashamed of my be-
ing affectionate in public. I let my arms
fall limp to my sides; they felt like iron
weights, and I felt so disappointed. But
then I saw Tony look at me and smile as
he was shaking the hand of one of the
network’s vice-presidents, and I realized
a man reacts differently about showing his

affection in front of others. Sometimes
women expect too much. And the truth is,
if the poor men conceded to us, a lot of our
respect would go. They really can’t seem
to win.

“After you’ve been married a while,
some of the romance does go out of mar-
riage. But what is romance? Romance is
an illusion. And if a woman feels it has
gone out, it is her fault — It’s in her own
mind.

“One night, when Tony and I were talk-
ing about it, we looked up the word ‘ro-
mance’ in the dictionary, and do you know
what it said? It said: ‘tendency to possess
a sympathetic imagination . . . exaggera-
tion or picturesque falsehood . . .’

“It’s not easy to keep the illusion — or
falsehood — of romance alive, but it can be
done even when you’re washing diapers or
nursing a baby with a fever around the
clock. But even if romance does go, some-
thing else grows— maybe it’s quieter, not
as exciting, but there comes in a good
marriage, with time, individual strength.
You eventually become a person fully and
grow.

“I hope I haven’t sounded like I don’t
believe in marriage. I just wanted to share
‘the other side,’ the side that everybody
seems to want to hide sometimes. We all
have those ‘down’ moments in a marriage
when we think the whole thing is falling
apart. But, you know, how many of us
wives, who complain, could live without
marriage now? My husband and my fam-
ily mean everything to me — they’re my
world — and it’s a wonderful feeling to know
that we’re all growing together. And, be-
lieve it or not, most of the time those
difficult moments in marriage turn out to
be a challenge and help both people grow.”

The End

DONNA APPEARS ON “THE DONNA REED SHOW”
ON ABC -TV, THURSDAY, 8:00-8:30 P.M. EST.

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Continued from page 63

The party was at the Luau Restaurant
in Beverly Hills and almost all evening
long she hadn’t been able to resist return-
ing a faint smile to the handsome young
stranger who kept staring at her from a
table just a little past hers. He wasn’t
giving her those hard, wolf-like stares she
was so used to from so many men in
Hollywood, nor did he even look as though
he were trying to find an excuse to break
in on the party or strike up a conversation
when he’d thought up a good “line.” No,
his eyes seemed to be saying “Hi! Please
don’t be angry if I look at you, but you’ve
got such an interesting face and I’m having
kind of a dull time.” So finally, after a little
while, she’d found herself smiling back
at him — a faint, discreet sort of smile that
just answered his own.

“Say — Jill! Wake up! I’ve been talking to
you for at least ten minutes and you
haven’t heard a single word I’ve been
saying.”

“What . . . oh . . . I’m sorry, Sandy,” Jill
said, suddenly remembering the blond girl
who was sitting next to her. “I didn’t mean
to ”

“That’s okay,” Sandy laughed, moving
her chair a little back from the table and
crossing one leg over the other. “I guess I
don’t rate particularly well against million-
aires.”

“Millionaires?”

“Yes, that guy over there who’s been
looking at you all evening. Don’t tell me
you don’t know who he is?”

“Well, no . . . not really. I think I’ve seen
his face somewhere before . . . but no . . .
no, I don’t know who he is.”

“That’s Lance Reventlow, Barbara Hut-
ton’s son. The one who. . . .” But the rest
of Sandy’s words seemed to get lost be-
cause Jill was watching Lance, again, as
he got up from his chair, seemed to make
some sort of excuse to the guests who were
with him and came over to her table — but
not to her, to her host at the far end who,
seeing Lance, looked up, smiled and slapped
him heartily on the back. She watched
them closely, as they chatted a while,
Lance looking her way only for a very
brief moment, then returning slowly to
his own table.

She didn’t give the incident too much
thought until the next evening, when the
telephone rang.

“Hello?” she said, in an unexpectant
sort of way, quite sure that it was for her
mother or father. It always was, when she
was feeling especially low and just wish-
ing someone special would call.

“Hello,” answered a deep mellow voice.
“Could I speak to Jill?”

“Jill speaking.”

“Oh ... hi, Jill. This is Lance — Lance
Reventlow. I guess you’re surprised to
hear from me but . . . I’m the one who
was rude enough to stare at you all yester-
day evening. Remember?”

“Yes,” she said guardedly, not wanting
him to know how delighted she was that
he called.

“Look . . . don’t be mad, please. I know
it’s not exactly the right thing to do, but
you had such an adorable smile and you
looked so lost, not talking, hardly, to any-
one, that I wished I could come right over
and sit with you myself. But, then, it was
a private party and I was with people too.”

“No . . . that’s all right. No . . . I’m not
mad at all.”

P “Really?”

“Really . .

And then they began to talk and to
^ laugh and to speak about just everything

in an easy, natural sort of a way — almost
as though they had known each other for
a long time. In fact, Jill couldn’t help but
utter a startled cry a while later, when
her mother called out, “Jill — please get
off the phone. You’ve been talking for over
an hour.”

“What’s up?” asked Lance, hearing a
voice in the background.

“It seems we’ve been talking for an
hour,” laughed Jill. “It’s unbelievable!”

“And I haven’t even told you why I
called. It was to ask you to have dinner
with me. What about tomorrow?”

She was busy. So they arranged to meet
on the first evening she was free. That was
a Saturday night.

And there was something extra special
about that Saturday date right from
the way she felt when she ran to the
door to let him in, to the gentle way in
which he kissed her on the forehead and
softly said “goodnight,” as she stepped in-
side many hours later.

And, as she climbed the stairs to her
bedroom, she found herself smiling, re-
membering how amusing he’d been, how
full of fun and yet with a subtle depth
of personality she found lacking in so
many other dates. He’d asked her to go to
the beach with him the next day, with a
crowd of friends, and even at this late
hour, she couldn’t resist the urge to hunt
through her beach clothes to find the
prettiest bathing suit she had.

It had been May of ’58 when they’d first

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had that dinner date, and by the summer
they’d become a steady twosome. In
August, Lance gave a party in honor of
Jill’s eighteenth birthday and invited two
hundred people to his home. Although
everyone expected them to announce their
engagement, it didn’t happen, primarily
because, when she and Lance had first
started dating, both of them had been de-
termined not to get seriously involved.
She vowed it would be many years before
she got married again and Lance was in
no rush to settle down; he valued his
freedom too much.

Yet, even so, it was like a fairy-tale be-
cause, for her birthday, Lance gave her a
ring designed in the shape of her favorite
flower, the white rose. The ring, worn on
her left hand, put gossip columnists into a
tizzy, but Jill stated flatly that it was a
gift of friendship — nothing more.

Summer turned into fall and they were
still constantly together, except for the
times that Lance went out of town to race
his car — something which bothered Jill
very much. She knew racing was dan-
gerous and she couldn’t understand why
Lance loved it so. Yet, she began to real-
ize it was as important to him as acting
was to her, and so she tried to be more
tolerant. After all, Lance wasn’t just a
daredevil kid trying to break his neck by
speeding, he was a sincere sports enthu-

siast, and an excellent driver. He’d even
established the Reventlow Automobile
Company, staffed with top mechanics and
engineers who’d worked hard on the de-
sign for the Scarab which, just this year,
won the American Grand Prix. No, racing i
was not a whim to Lance.

Although the newspapers kept up a
constant stream of reports about the I I
glamorous places they’d go, in reality, i I
most of their dates were quiet, simple, I
and not the kind that made for exciting ,
gossip items. Both Jill and Lance have a i
serious side to their natures, and on many
occasions they’d sit quietly in his living
room, in front of the fireplace, sometimes
not speaking for hours, engrossed over a
game of chess. Or, on other evenings,
they’d curl up in opposite chairs and read
for hours and then discuss what they had
been reading. Sometimes, they invited
other couples in and Lance made steaks j
while Jill whipped up salad and hors I
d’oeuvres. Later, they’d go outside in his 1
backyard and play ping pong or just sit
and talk.

Around Christmas, Lance was scheduled
to compete in races being held in the
Bahama Islands off the Atlantic sea- i
coast. At the same time, Fox Studios had
arranged to send Jill East on a tour for :
her film, “The Remarkable Mr. Penny- '
packer.” That’s how it happened that both ;
turned up in New York for the holidays ;
and that’s when Jill first met her future !
mother-in-law, Barbara Hutton.

For days before the meeting, Jill was in
a turmoil. She was apprehensive and wor- "
ried as to whether or not Lance’s mother |i
would like her. Finally, the day arrived i
and they drove out to the home of Lance’s !
cousin, Jimmy Donohue, in Long Island,
where Barbara Hutton was staying.

All during the drive, Jill kept twisting |
and turning in her seat, asking Lance ]
time and time again, “Do you really think
she’ll like me — really?”

“Yes, yes,” Lance reassured her. “How I1
couldn’t she?” he added. “Who in the
world could dislike you?”

“Well, I just thought . . .” she stam-
mered. “Perhaps . . she added, but ,
didn’t complete her sentence.

Yet, as they turned off the highway and ,
Lance announced, “Just a few minutes 4
more,” panic really seized Jill.

“Lance! I want to go back,” she said.
“Now don’t be silly,” he answered, ;
quietly.

Jill lifted her hand and turned down the :
mirror on the sun-visor. “But my hair,”
she wailed as she peered into the glass, j
“and my face. Oh. Lance, can’t we go
another day?”

“But we’re almost there . . . anyone j
would think I was taking you to the den-
tist,” he laughed, kindly.

“Well . . . okay then,” she murmured, 1
watching, as they pulled up in front of a
large house.

Lance held her hand tightly as he
helped her out of the car, keeping hold ”
of it as they walked up the gravel drive-
way to the front door. “I love you,” he
whispered, just before he reached out to
ring the doorbell. As yet, there had been
no talk of marriage.

Almost immediately, the door was
opened by a kindly-looking man with a
beaming smile. “Hi,” he said. “Come in.
You must be Jill. I’m Jimmy Donohue.”

Then, suddenly, there she was — Lance’s
mother — walking toward them, her hand
outstretched and her face with an expres-
sion that said, “Welcome, Jill.”

“You must be cold,” were her first |
words. “It’s freezing out there.”

“Yes,” Jill agreed, and watched as
mother greeted son.

“Now take off your coats,” she said,

“and come along in. I’ve heard so many
wonderful things about you, Jill.”

She invited Jill to sit next to her on a
deep couch in front of a bright-burn-
ing coal fire, and then began chatting
casually about Hollywood and the film
Jill had just made. And they both laughed
as they noticed how often Lance kept
looking in their direction, even though he
pretended to be engrossed in a conversa-
tion about racing, with Jimmy.

It seemed no time at all before Lance
was looking at his watch and saying,
“Come on, Jill. I think we’d better be
going. It’s getting rather late.”

And, as they said goodbye and walked
down toward the car, it was Jill who held
Lance’s hand tightly, a silent “thank you”
for the lovely afternoon.

“Well, was that so bad?” asked Lance,
as the door closed behind them.

“Bad! Oh, Lance, you have such a
■' I charming mother.”

And Lance smiled softly, half to him-
self and half to Jill.

Soon after, they returned to Hollywood
and Jill went into “Holiday for Lovers.”
But, when asked by the columnists if she
and Lance were serious, she put on her
best Mona Lisa smile and said, “At pres-
ent, neither of us are dating anyone else.”
There was no mention of marriage. But,
it seemed only a matter of time.

I 1 Even though a lot of publicity has re-

volved around the expensive gifts Lance
has given Jill, they have actually gained
the most fun out of exchanging funny
greeting cards. One of the first Lance
gave Jill had a young, moonstruck boy
! sketched on the front, and a message
|| which read, “I’m looking for a steady
i|: girl . . .” inside it continued . . . “with
a steady job!” It was not until many
I months later, that Lance decided to use
i: this medium for something far more

serious. This card would mean some-
thing special . . .

It was on a warm, late summer evening,
when Lance pulled up in front of Jill’s
house with the Very Important Card in
his pocket. And he was humming softly,
to himself, as he rang the doorbell.

“Hi,” Jill said, opening it. “Come on in.”
Then, as he brushed past her going into
the house, he paused, just for a moment,
to give her a kiss.

“Have you eaten?” she began, starting
to talk to Lance about everyday things.

“Well, no . . . but come into the living
room, first, just for a moment. I’ve got
something for you.”

“Oh, Lance, you’re always giving me
presents,” she teased.

“It’s not really a gift,” he said.

Jill stopped and turned to look at him,
quizzically, as Lance fumbled in his
pocket, bringing out the card.

“A card!” laughed Jill.

He handed it to her and she quickly
opened it, looking searchingly down at
the oblong shape with its decorative type
that read, “Shes lovely . . . she’s en-
gaged” . . . and inside, “She’s you!”

“Oh . . . Lance,” she whispered. And
there was no need for any more words. A
few weeks later. Jill’s parents held a small
engagement dinner for Jill’s closest rela-
tives. But the item did not break in the
papers until four days later because Lance,
who is a devoted son, would not tell any-
one, publicly, until he’d first told the defi-
nite news to his mother. They’d sent her
a letter to her Paris address but, unex-
pectedly, she’d left town and the letter
took almost an extra week catching up
with her. And she was delighted, saying
she’d been expecting it for weeks.

Then began plans for a spring wedding,
to be followed by a honeymoon in the
Orient. But even though they are now

both sure of their love, Jill did make her-
self a vow that she’d never marry some-
one without a long courtship and engage-
ment period and, if they stick to their
plans, they will he married in March or
April, just a month short of two years
since they began dating. Jill wants a
simple wedding, and, at the moment,
thinks it will be a private ceremony with
just her parents and Lance’s mother and
probably Nina Shipman as her maid of
honor and Lance’s cousin Jimmy Donohue
as best man. They may have some sort of
reception but are absolutely against turn-
ing their wedding into a “spectacular.” Jill
plans to take a four-month leave of ab-
sence from the studio so that, after they
come back from their honeymoon in
Japan, she can go to Europe with Lance,
who’ll be there competing in some of the
most grueling race competitions in the
world.

They plan on living in the home that
Lance’s mother gave him on his twenty-
first birthday. It’s a magnificent place on
the top of the highest mountain in Beverly
Hills and has an unobstructed view of the
entire city. From the front, you look at
the Pacific Ocean, and from the sides, the
low hills of the valley, the skyline of down-
town Los Angeles and out to the suburbs.
The decor, done by Lance, is in simple
elegance and extremely livable. The most
exciting room is the den, with glass doors
leading out to the patio and pool. When
the doors are closed, there’s still about a
fifth of the pool inside the room, so
Lance’s guests can get into the pool in-
doors and swim underneath the glass
partition and find themselves outside.

So, in the end, Jill not only found her
fairy-tale prince, but her palace too. And,
like all good fairy-tale heroines, she plans,
this time, to live happily ever after.

Her prince plans that too. The End

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SHIRLEY TEMPLE

Continued from page 46

are grey-beige, the carpet a rough beige.
One wall houses a hi-fi cabinet and book-
cases; the grand piano, that was Shirley’s
as a child, stands in the alcove windows
(eleven-year -old Susan plays it now);
there are two wonderfully realistic old
Chinese figures on the piano; pieces of
Persian brass on the window ledge, and at
the far end of the room a four-and-a-half-
yard obi hangs down the wall.

Facing me, in the bookcase, was a row of
red-leather volumes, each with a nostalgic
title; “Little Miss Marker,” “Curly Top,”
“The Little Princess,” “Stand Up and
Cheer.”

I looked at them and remembered Shir-
ley’s playhouse at 20th Century-Fox,
which had been built especially for her.
It had been all pink and blue and had a
large collection of toys in it, including a
Mickey and Minnie Mouse pair, a some-
what battered doll named Mrs. Smith,
whom Shirley used to say “suffers some-
thing awful,” and another called Mrs.
Brown, “who has internal complications,”
because most of her sawdust was gone out
of her. Outside, was a pen-full of fuzzy,
hoppy rabbits and Shirley’s prize — Pinkie,
who was a turtle all painted on his top-
shell with daisies and leaves. There was
always someone else in that play-yard, too,
and her name was Dorothy. Only nobody
could see her, except Shirley.

1 remembered a story Shirley told me,
several years ago, about Dorothy. She
said it had been kind of nice having
Dorothy around when anything went
wrong, because it was always Dorothy
who was to blame — not Shirley. She said
it had been sort ot fun never to be wrong,
always to be aole to blame it on someone
make-believe, whom no one else could
see. But, then, one day Shirley couldn’t
see Dorothy any more, either.

That afternoon, after her nap and after
her mother had curled her hair around
her finger, Shirley ran out into the play-
yard. just as she always did. She took
about three steps and saw that one of the
dolls lay forgotten on the ground, one
arm up in the air, the other bent cruelly
behind her. Shirley looked at the doll a
moment, saying, ‘Poor Mrs. Smith,” and
then she turned around and said, “Dorothy!
Why did you do that? You’re naughty
again!”

And Dorothy sort of hung her head and
looked sorry. Shirley said a few more
things to her, and then, tiring of that, went
to find Pinkie, tne turtle. Maybe he’d like
to play hide-and-seek with her, or maybe
he’d like to try to climb up on top of the
playhouse with her. But Pinkie didn’t
want to play anything. He just sat there,
not moving at all, no matter what Shirley
said or did, and somehow she knew he
would never move again. She couldn’t
stop crying.

It wasn’t until her two big brothers
suggested they have a funeral for Pinkie,
that it did any good to try to quiet her.

“See,” said Jack, “I’ll line this nice-
smelling soapbox with the pink velvet left
over from that dress Mother made you —
and we’ll have a funeral.”

Shirley dried her tears and asked, “What
do people do at funerals?”

“Well, they sing a little and they cry
a little and someone digs a hole and huries
the turtle,” George Jr. decided.

And Shirley thought that sounded like
P a good idea. That that’s what they ought
to do about old Pinkie. “He was a very
good turtle,” she said seriously, “and I
think he'd like all this. Can we dance, too?”

Her brothers didn’t think that would be
quite appropriate. “We can dance another
time when we’re pretending weddings,” he
told her. “Okay?”

Shirley nodded solemnly. Somehow, she
knew this was a solemn occasion, and she
followed her brothers out to the side of the
playhouse yard, where they dug a little
hole for Pinkie in his pink-velvet-lined
soapbox. Jack read the burial service, and
then they covered over the spot and placed
a dozen daisies on it. “So you’ll know just
where he is,” they said.

Shirley nodded again, but now she
wasn’t thinking about Pinkie. She won-
dered where Dorothy, her make-believe
friend, had gone. She kept looking over
her shoulder for her, but she was nowhere
to be seen. And at that moment, Shirley
knew that somehow Dorothy was gone,
too. In some strange way, she’d been laid
to rest in that soft, earthy hole with
Pinkie. And now Shirley knew that, when
she was naughty, she’d have no one to
blame but herself. She didn’t quite under-
stand all this. She just knew it was so, and
that made her a little sad, too.

Shirley said that whenever she had to
cry in a movie, she used to scrunch up her
eyes and remember just how she felt the
day that Pinkie and Dorothy had gone
away, and it always worked. But, now,
even the playhouse is gone. After Shirley
left it, Orson Welles took it, painted it all
black and put tombstones in the yard. And
the next time she saw it, it had changed
even more. It had been taken over by the
studio dentist and it was the place where
all the studio personnel got their teeth
drilled. Now there’s an oil well there that
looks as if it will go on pumping for-
ever . . . But probably that will change,
too, with the years — just as Shirley has
changed.

Lori pulled out one of the red-leather
volumes and opened it to a picture of
Shirley as “Little Miss Marker.” For
a moment she gazed at the round, dimple-
faced little girl who, at Lori’s age, had dis-
placed Janet Gaynor and Greta Garbo as
the top box-office attraction in Hollywood.
“That’s my mommy,” Lori said, looking a
little puzzled.

Small Shirley had golden ringlets; small
Lori has thick, brown hair and today’s
child is not as round-faced or as dimpled;
but the brown eyes are the same, and the
half-gay, half-serious face promises the
same beguiling mischief which seemed to
be always be-deviling Adolphe Menjou in
the stills.

Lori is a flirt — Shirley ’d told me that—
and full of mischief. She’d been the prima-
donna of the company when she appeared
with the rest of the family in “Mother
Goose” on TV. And I could see the mis-
chief popping now in her eyes. Then, at this
moment, Shirley appeared, and Lori
looked from her to the pictures in “Little
Miss Marker” and said, half-serious, half-
joking: “Mommy — did you really know
Shirley Temple?”

Shirley laughed and caught her little
daughter’s hands, pulling her up from the
rug. “Nap-time,” she said, and then, “You
know the answer to that, Lori.” Turning
to me, Shirley winked as if to say, “I
think Lori’s asked that a hundred times,
and I’m waiting for little Charlie to look
at ‘The Littlest Rebel’ on TV and ask me
if I’d really been in the Civil War!”

Shirley laughed, as though remembering
something and then she said: “You know,
we had a postman out in Maryland, where
Charlie and I set up housekeeping while
he was in service. He used to come around
and ask if Shirley Temple lived there.
When I told him I was Shirley Temple, he
was real pleased. He said he used to see
all my movies when he was a boy — and
he must have been at least sixty-five!”

Shirley Temple today is staitling, ]
thought, as she started to show me around
the room. Her black hair is cut short, her
mouth is bright red against the deep
bronze of her skin, which looked even
browner because of her white wool dress
Lori went off with- Mrs. Paul to take
her nap and I told Shirley how much ]
admired the room. “My husband Charlie
designed the hi-fi cabinet and book- j
shelves,” she said. She had made no effort
to remove the things that bespoke Charlie’s
presence of the night before: his meer-
schaum pipe, his guitar, boxes of record-
ing tape around the Ampex recorder.

As I listened to Shirley talk about TV
rehearsing today, now that she’s grownup
and a mother of three children, I couldn’t
help remembering how easily acting and
singing had come to her when she was a
child. The thing was, of course, that she
didn’t act. She didn’t even know she was
a star. To Shirley, who knew Janet Gay-
nor, Will Rogers, Adolphe Menjou and a
dozen or more other screen greats, stars
were just those twinkly things in the
sky — there were no other kind. She knew
nothing of the conspiracy that surrounded
her which prevented her from knowing
about earthly “stars.” The reason for the
conspiracy was simple enough! Everyone
knew that once she realized her position
in the screen world, all her magic would
end. She would begin to try to act. And,
when this happened, she would become
stilted and amateurish. Once she becamei
self-conscious and realized playing movies
wasn’t a game, that would be the end of
everything. This happened with “The Blue
Bird.” It was around this time, while she:
searched for the blue bird of happiness on
film, that she began to realize that the
eight years of picture-making behind her
had not all been a game. It was around
this time that she began to act.

And, at the moment she began trying,
she changed into just another eleven-year-
old girl, growing fast, trying hard to re-
main a “star,” for she knew, then, that
there were earthly stars — trying hard to{
keep everything as it had been.

She made thirteen pictures after this.
But none of them were the same — and she
knew it. Everyone knew it. The magic
was gone. In “Blue Bird” she found the
secret of happiness. But that was make-
believe. Now she began searching for it
in real life. For five years she searched
for happiness, for a new identity for her-
self. And when she was sixteen, she
thought she’d found it.

She met John Agar, then, and fell in love
with him. When her parents tried to 1 1
dissuade her from marrying so young, ; I
she couldn’t listen. She could hear noth- i I
ing but the deep, masculine sound of John’s : I
voice — that and the music in her heart. ; I
They all compromised. She would wait. |
But when Shirley was seventeen she
didn’t want to wait any longer. There was!
a lovely ceremony with orange blossoms j
and white tulle and five hundred people [
at the wedding and, outside the church,
were thousands of people who had watched
her grow from babyhood and loved her.

Four years after she’d married John, she :
stood before the judge and asked for a
divorce. She walked out of the courtroom
looking as if she would never smile again.

But now Shirley smiled easily and said,
“If you’d like to get a peek at Lori’s room
before she falls asleep, we’d better go
now.” And she led me down a long cor-
ridor to Lori's room, chatting gaily and
with enthusiasm as she went. Were there
no scars? I thought. There didn’t appear
to be any.

Lori’s room is white and pumpkin, femi-
nine in a pert five-year-old way. On one
wall is a baby picture of Shirley aged
eleven months — and no hair. On another

wall is a collection of Shirley Temple
dolls; some of them resemble her as a child
< closely; some do not.

“They were trial balloons,” she ex-
plained. “The manufacturer sent many
samples. I would then suggest changes,
and finally we developed the new Shirley
Temple doll.”

There was a sound of brakes outside, and
Shirley excused herself and hurried to
the front door, for this would be the bus
bringing little Charlie home from school.
He is a vivacious seven-year-old with big
brown eyes, his brown hair in a crew-cut.
Charlie knew how to read before he was
even in first grade, and he loves to read
[his mother’s fan mail and the newspapers
and picks up an amazing collection of in-
formation. The bus driver reported, the
other day, that Charlie had taken to read-
ing “Rapunzel” to the children in the bus,
coming and going. It was the only thing
i that had ever kept the children quiet.

The big moment of Charlie’s life was not
his appearance in “Mother Goose” — he
H almost bowed out when he discovered
he’d have to wear a wig as the shepherd
| boy. The director told him that the men
jwere also wearing wigs as villagers and
'explained why, that this is how men and
boys wore their hair in those days; so
Charlie gave in, then almost backed out
again when he was handed a costume,
including a long night shirt. Then the
director showed him what the men would
be wearing . . .

Lori, Susan and Charlie were all in
“Mother Goose” but Charlie had fifteen
lines scattered through the show and he
got to stay with his mother in Los
!IAngeles for eight days, several days
longer than expected because Shirley
sprained her ankle learning a butterfly
lift during the first dance rehearsal. The
accident threw the whole production into
a temporary state of chaos. The ankle was
x-rayed and taped, the specialist warned
Shirley not to stand on it, so she danced
mostly on her left foot and rode in a wheel
chair when she wasn’t on camera. Little
Charlie was most solicitous of the ankle
and loved the wheel chair in which he
sent his mother speeding around the
studio. When he and his sisters weren’t
needed for shooting, they studied with the
sister of Shirley’s former teacher, Frances
Klampt.

Young Charlie’s room is a family affair
too. It’s literally crammed with his rock
collection (his mom helps him with this)
and his butterfly collection (Susan helps
him with this) and his turtle collection
(Lori is inclined to intrude on this) , his
books, and his stamp collection (which is
largely augmented by letters his mother
has received from all over the world and
letters his father gets at Ampex), and his
pictures, including one of his daddy as a
boy in a sailor suit, and an autographed
one of J. Edgar Hoover. Charlie’s room
isn’t neat — and shouldn’t be. Shirley
showed me his collections proudly. When
I studied the screen covered with pictures
of child Shirley (see Shirley’s scrap-
book, pages 46-47), she explained that a
long-ago fan had made it for her and
showed me where some of the pictures
had been literally steamed off by the vapor
from the croup kettle when Charlie had a
cold as a baby.

Another school bus, the front door
again, and Susan dashed in. She hugged
her mother, said hello politely and then
was gone again with a girlfriend. She’s a
pretty girl, Susan, a sixth-grader with
long, dark-blond hair; she’s almost as tall
as her mother and weighs a hundred
pounds. She’s still a little girl, you can
see that in some of the books she still
treasures and in her collection of dolls.
But she’s growing up too; you can see

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that in the neatness of her room, the auto-
graphed picture she treasures from Presi-
dent Eisenhower, the pretty bouffant
dresses, the friendship mementos. Susan
is popular at school and is studious. Last
year, she surprised her parents by win-
ning a Creative Writing Contest with a
poem entitled “Winter” (a recollection of
their life at Bethesda, Maryland, when she
was only foui -and-a-half) . She loves the
piano and is an excellent swimmer.

Big Charlie started teaching her when
she was very little; she wore a life jacket
then. In first grade at school, she sur-
i prised Shirley by winning a Porpoise
1 Award — “and,” the teacher said, “she only
| missed her Dolphin by a foot.”

1 “Why she can’t swim without a life
jacket!” Shirley said.

“Oh, but Mama, this is a different pool,”
said Susan.

We were walking around the pool in
the hot sun, while she talked, and it was
so quiet and the trees so dense, it just
; didn’t seem possible that there were
| neighbors within twenty miles! “Nineteen
! youngsters in our immediate area,” Shirley
says, “that’s why we love it. Look, here
are a few carrots and squash left over
from our vegetable days. Soon we’ll have
a pool house. We cleared this whole area,
moved trees — that orange tree’s still in a
state of shock— everything!”

A small black Schipperke came dashing
after us. Her name was “Demi,” short for
“Demitasse." Chris loped along after her.

“We find we can grow almost anything,”
Shirley said. “Look, here’s Hawaiian white
ginger, and here’s our mint patch, and
rosemary, which I toss right on the coals
when Charlie barbecues; it permeates the
meat with a delightful flavoring. We love
to garden, Charlie and I, weekends when
we’re home. Lots of weekends we go to
Monterey to explore the beach and climb
the rocks. We work outdoors all day. My
husband built the rock garden in the
center of the patio.” When she pushed
the switch, a little waterfall started over
the rocks, and I noticed her hands for the
first time — small business-like hands with
short nails and no polish. “I don’t like
to wear gloves when I garden,” she said,
catching my glance.

“We don’t swim at Monterey; just splash
around the surf because of sharks. After
little Charlie was born, we had a vacation
at Bermuda and I’d just started skin
diving. I’d asked Charlie what barracuda
looked like and he said they were long
and thin with a smiling mouth. Suddenly,
in the water, a big fish swam past me. It
was long and thin and I didn’t worry about
its being a barracuda because its mouth
went down in a frown, not up in a smile.
‘Barracuda!’ Charlie yelled and I took
off for shore without trying to find out
what made it unhappy. I gave up skin div-
ing for the day.”

The phone rang and Shirley dashed in to
answer it. “Hi, Charlie!” she said and
beckoned to me to come on in. It was
something about the United Bay Areas
Crusade on which he’s working and there
was something about Shirley’s indoctrina-
tion course in the sociological problems of
city government, and then Shirley laughed
her free giggly laugh and this was about a
costume party they were invited to. When
she’d hung up, she dragged out several
family albums to show. The children gath-
ered around and she showed us pictures of
her and Charlie at various costume par-
ties— for the “Seven Year Itch” they wore
sweat shirts, jeans and beanies with turtles
on top, and all over their faces, necks and
arms “chicken pox” spots she had labo-
riously painted on with indelible lipstick.
“And,” Shirley remarked, “it was indelible
— not on me, it came off me — but it took a
while to get the spots off Charlie!” And

pictures of the party where he went as
Ernest Hemingway after his African plane
crash, and she went as a native.

“Oh, and here’s a picture of our first
house, the one at Bethesda, Maryland.
Charlie was in the Navy then and we
found a very small apartment in Washing-
ton. We had four rooms including the bath,
and the kitchen was so tiny you could
hardly turn around. That’s when the
newspapers said I had upstairs maids and
downstairs maids! Well, we moved out
of the country into a ‘California rambler’
house — here’s a picture of it in the snow —
and we had an eighty-foot well with the
coldest, sweetest water I’ve ever tasted,
and a long road leading back. See, in the
picture, the gate-posts with the ship’s
lanterns? Well, there they are” — she
pointed out the two table lamps on either
end of the couch with their weather-
beaten patina. Shirley couldn’t bear to
part with them because she and Charlie
had been so happy in the little house,
near the hospital where little Charlie had
been born and where Susan had seen her
first snowfall ... So she’d brought the
lanterns along when they moved west and
had them made into lamps.

As Shirley turned the pages of the scrap-
books, there was a sort of glow about
her and I couldn’t help thinking
about the way she’d looked, shortly after
her divorce from John Agar, when she’d
gone away to Honolulu for a “rest.” All
the light had gone out of her dark eyes
then. She looked beaten — almost old, as a
hurt and disillusioned child can look old.
She’d been offered the opportunity of
studying in Europe by Fox, but she’d hesi-
tated. She wanted more out of life — if
there really was any more and she was
not at all sure there was — than pretend-
ing to laugh and cry and love on the
screen. And, so, she’d told Fox that she’d
think it over, and had gone off to Hono-
lulu to try to come to peace with herself.

It was there she’d met Charles Black.
He was a businessman. Movies were some-
thing he paid admission to see. He had
no aspirations in that direction. He only
wanted to be successful in business and,
when the day came, to be a good husband
and father. The day came a year later.
He and Shirley were married in a quiet
ceremony — so different from the first one
with John Agar. And Shirley and Susan
and Charlie settled down in Maryland, far
from Hollywood and its celluloid stars
that rise and fall and disappear. They
were happy. They are still happy — Shirley
and Charlie and their three children.

“Well,” said Shirley, shutting the last
scrapbook, “I guess that’s it.”

I looked at her and I couldn’t help think-
ing how wise she is, how much she must
have learned from her earlier mistakes.

In some strange way, Shirley has gone
back to the time when she was a little
girl and stars were only those twinkly
things in the sky. If there are any other
kind, they are unimportant.

And, in some canny way, Shirley Temple
will never forget that scrapbooks have
value only when there are youngsters’
hands to turn the pages and a husband’s
firm hand to design the shelves where they
are stowed. You just don’t live a life
before the cameras or over the scrapbooks.
You live a life with a husband and children
and other people in the community. You
grow with people, and Shirley knows it.
Yet, to all those who remember the curly-
headed, dimpled doll, and to the new 1
generation who now see her pictures on 3
television, Shirley Temple will always I
be the little girl who never grows up. I
—JANE ARDMORE I

shirley’s on abc-tv every 3rd mon., 7:30- a
8: 30 P.M. EST, “SHrRLEY temple’s STORY BOOK.” ■

NOW

PLAYING

For fuller reviews, see Photoplay for the
months indicated. For full reviews this month,
see page 8. (a — adult f — family)

HOUSE OF THE SEVEN HAWKS, THE—
M-G-M: Real Dutch backgrounds make the
mysterious goings-on extra interesting. As a
lough American adventurer, Robert Taylor
is on the prowl for lost Nazi loot. (F) January

LAST ANGRY MAN, THE — Columbia: Excel-
lent, faithful version of the best-seller. Paul
Muni’s just right as the old doctor in a Brook-
lyn slum. So’s David Wayne as a producer who
wants to put Muni on TV. (F) December

LI'L ABNER -Paramount; VistaVision, Tech-
nicolor: Big, bouncy musical, done with lots
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January

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The answer’s full of fun. Peter Sellers juggles
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who’s a pretty American. (F) December

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skillfully made but routinely plotted thriller.
Harry Belafonte, Robert Ryan, Ed Begley lend
excitement to the story of a bank robbery bun-
gled through race prejudice. (A) December

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istic picture of 1964, intended to scare us into
thinking — and action. In Australia, Ava
Gardner, Gregory Peck, Fred Astaire, Tony
Perkins, Donna Anderson await the radio-ac-
tive doom that’s hit everyone else. (F) January

1001 ARABIAN NIGHTS— UPA, Columbia;
Technicolor: Pleasing, if too talky, cartoon
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Dwayne Hickman speak for the young
lovers. (F) January

OPERATION PETTICOAT— U-I, Eastman
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Dina Merrill, Joan O’Brien. (F) January

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— 30 — — Warners: The title is newspaperese
for “the end,” but the movie isn’t quite that
good. Jack Webb’s tried to make a believable
newspaper story. He’s managing editor, David
Nelson is copy boy. (F) January

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CLARK GABLE

Continued from page 58

How could I be? I have you now . . ”

“And always,” he’d said. He had taken
her in his arms and kissed her, and for the
first time in years and years he too had
felt free of the past, free of its beauties and
terrors, its happiness and its tragedies.
Free of the memory of death.

But tonight —

Death.

The word echoed restlessly in his head.
Now, in the grey dawn, he could remem-
ber what had snapped him suddenly
awake. A dream. He had dreamed of
death, had wakened, calling Kay, with the
cold chill of it somehow all around him.

As death had reached out to so many
in Hollywood recently. Shutting his eyes,
Clark turned on his side. He wouldn’t
think about it now. Now he would go to
sleep.

Victor McLaglen, his stubborn mind
whispered.

Errol . . .

Tyrone . . .

Paul Douglas . . .

The beautiful Kay Kendall.

In so few months, death had claimed so
many.

In Hollywood, people were superstitious.
When one died, they waited for the next.
“It comes in threes,” they said. “Never just
one — ” It was nonsense, of course, and
yet—

Somehow there was always another.

Angrily, Clark swung his long legs out
of the bed and stood up. Morbid nonsense,
he told himself. He’d get into his bathrobe
and make himself some coffee. In an hour
or so the sun would be up. Then every-
thing would look different. He’d felt low
before, and pulled out of it. Like the
time —

He’d never forget the night Kay lost the
I baby.

If a man could survive that, he could
survive anything.

He was in his fifth marriage and his
fifty-fourth year, and he had never had
a child.

Carole and he had talked about a family.
Beautiful, laughing, wonderful Carole who
had left the world of night clubs and
parties and adoration she’d lived in so
long to build him a home on his bachelor
ranch, to wade down trout streams in hip
boots and mud, to call him “Pappy” and
enrich his life with her glowing vitality,
and her love. They would, they decided,
raise a family of beautiful girls and husky
men, an entire sewing circle and a basket-
ball team. Only there’d been no time . . .

She’d said goodbye to him at the air-
port to go on a bond -selling tour. From
city to city she’d flown, addressing meet-
ings and crowds and rallies, smiling at
thousands of strangers, and selling mil-
lions of dollars worth of bonds, and from
every city sending him a message —

“Hey, Pappy, you’d better get into this
man’s army!”

But the last message came not from
Carole, but from a stranger in an airbase
in Nevada. “Your wife’s plane has — dis-
appeared. Perhaps you want to come
down?”

They found the wreckage the next day.
Flames, and charred steel and smoke, and
somewhere, lost forever, the great love
and life that had been his with Carole
Lombard.

The child of that marriage was despair.

He joined the Army then. He enlisted
as a private and, firing a gun from the
turret of a plane over Germany, he rose
to the rank of major. When the war was
over he came home in triumph, the most

sought-after, the most lonely man m
Hollywood. In 1949 he tried to end that
loneliness by marrying again; his wife
was a fashionable blonde with an English
accent and English ideas — Lady Sylvia
Ashley. For eighteen long, wearing
months they did their honest best to adjust
to each other, to like each other’s ways.
It was an honorable, but inevitable failure,
long before children could even be
considered.

And then Kay came into his life. She
. came like a dream of peace and con-
tentment. She came not to mother
him or change him — but only to love him.
She was not a girl as Carole had been, nor
a “Lady” as Sylvia had been — she was a
woman, having known sorrow and joy,
having survived two broken marriages,
having borne two wonderful children. She
had wit, and a temper when angered — and
the patience of a saint to wait for the man
she loved to know he loved her, too.

And he finally did. He woke up finally
one day in 1955 when Hollywood was
flooded with rumors that they were en-
gaged, secretly married, just good friends,
split-up, bitter enemies — and knew that
he wanted with all his heart to marry
Kay.

What he and Kay had together was not
what he and Carole had known — hut what
he and Carole would have had in years
to come if they were very, very lucky.

He knew he was lucky, beyond belief,
right now.

From the beginning, their marriage was
good. The same kind, firm discipline
which Kay gave her children, she gave
to the running of Clark’s home. He did
not like a lot of servants about, preferring
the few he had known and felt comfort-
able with for years; Kay made it her
business to get to know and like them, too,
to make whatever changes she required
slowly and carefully, without hurting feel-
ings or disrupting routines. Clark liked
to live out-of-doors as much as possible;
Kay provided herself with slickers and
boots and went with him. Clark liked to
take off suddenly, on impulse, for a short
trip or vacation; Kay wisely kept suitcases
easily accessible and turned down invita-
tions that arrived too far in advance.

And when they had been married less
than a year, she told him she was going
to have a baby.

If she had handed him the moon to hold
in his hands, she could not have made half
the impression. She had never in her whole
life seen a look of such absolute, in-
credulous joy; she had not known till
then that a strong man’s eyes could fill
with tears and he would not be ashamed.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.

“ W ell — almost.”

“We’ll have to wait . . . and see.”

She knew what he meant. Wait and
make sure before allowing himself to fully
feel this joy, before giving way to such a
tremendous pride, before building new
rooms, planning a new life —

As if he held his breath, as if he walked
on tiptoe, Clark waited.

And on the day the doctor confirmed
Kay’s pregnancy, he burst loose. They
went to a party that night; he ran from
guest to guest, like a boy, distributing
cigars. The famous grin spread from ear
to ear; the famous deep laugh rang out all
night. He was a man who had finally come
into his own.

The next day the carpenters came to
build a nursery wing. The furniture sales-
men arrived with cribs and bathinets suit-
able for princes. Saleswomen from de-
partment stores sent layettes. If Kay
hadn’t laughed at him, Clark would prob-
ably have registered his unborn child in
half-a-dozen colleges.

Congratulations poured in from all over.

One couple, close friends of Clark’s and
Kay’s, suggested a final fling to celebrate,
‘'before you have to start worrying about
baby sitters.” They planned a short trip
to the Valley of the Moon; they’d rough it
together, fish, have a ball. Kay would be
in her eleventh week of pregnancy then;
ready and able to camp out.

But in her tenth week, Kay picked up a
virus. Her face was flushed, her eyes
too bright, but she refused to go to
bed. "Nonsense, I’m fine. I’ve got too much
to do to just lie around. After all, we’re
leaving in a few days.”

Finally Clark called the doctor. He
came over and silenced her protests with
a thermometer. Then he looked at Clark.
"Sorry, but you’re going to have to cancel
the trip.”

The doctor left, his eyes worried. In her
bed, Kay Gable hid her face and wept.
“I’m failing you,” she sobbed. “You
wanted to go so much, you hate to be
cooped up in the house . . .”

He held her to his heart. “Anywhere
with you is where I want to be. Now stop
crying and rest. You’ll see, it’ll turn out
to be a good thing, canceling the trip. The
Valley will be flooded, or something . . .”

It did turn out to be a good thing. Not
because of The Valley. But because on
the day they would have left, Kay’s fever
suddenly climbed. Her forehead burned,
she shivered violently, begged for more
and more blankets. By the time a terrified
Clark had reached the doctor, his wife
was in a coma. The physician arrived, sat
by the bed for twenty-four hours while
Clark paced miserably up and down. By
morning, the fever was lessened, but Kay
was weak and exhausted. Even after she
could leave the bed, she looked pale and
ill. Every afternoon her energy seemed
to disappear; Clark would lead her care-
fully back to her room, lower the blinds,
cover her feet and watch anxiously until
she fell into heavy, restless sleep.

And then one night at nine o’clock,
watching television, she cried out sud-
denly. “Clark — honey — ”

“What is it?”

"I don’t know!” Her voice was sharp
with fear, “I don’t know! I feel — terrible!”

Within minutes an ambulance was at
the house. Holding Kay’s hand on the way
to the hospital, Clark prayed. Then he
had to say goodbye to her at the door of a
private room and go into the corridor.
Doctors and nurses hurrying by scarcely
saw the tall, sturdy man with his head
bent over his hands, waiting, waiting.

At four-thirty in the morning, Kay's
doctor found him.

“I’ve been trying all night to save the
baby. I’m sorry. For your wife’s sake,
she'll have to lose the child.”

Clark raised his head. “Go ahead,” he
said hoarsely. “Just don’t— don’t let any-
thing happen to my wife!”

At five o’clock the operation was per-
formed.

The moon was taken away from him.

Weeks later, he brought his wife home
from the hospital. He settled her in her
room, and then he went down to walk by
himself across the rolling hills of his land.
When he had been out for an hour, he
heard a call behind him, and turned.
Bunker and Joan waved to him to wait,
raced toward him across the grass. He
watched them come.

Bunker got there first. “Pa— Mom said
we should come out and keep you
company.”

Joanie said, “Can we walk a ways with
you, Pa?”

He stood looking down at them. For some
reason he never could explain, he had to
say, “You know — you know, I’m not your

They grinned up at him. They chor-

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used: “Yeah, we know — Pa.’

And he felt the fear and sorrow of the
days just past slip slowly away from his
heart.

The nursery wing the carpenters had
begun would never be completed now.
- But there would be time for building of
another sort; time to create a structure
more enduring than stone and brick. He
would build his life around the children
he already had; he would be, in the truest
sense, a father after all.

He began slowly to refer to Bunker and
Joanie as “my son” and “my little girl.”

He began to help them with homework,
worry with Kay over the choice of a
school. One night, the Buckleys School,
where he and Kay had decided at last to
send them, put on a show. Bunker and
Joanie both had roles in it, so of course
Kay and Clark attended. A thrilled little
usher showed them to seats in the audi-
torium; amid a crowd of other proud par-
ents they beamed while the house lights
dimmed, the curtains parted and their off-
spring appeared on the stage.

But the first act was hardly halfway
through, when a noise was heard in the
audience. A second later, a small child
ducked out of his seat and dashed down
the aisle, mounted the steps to the stage,
planted his feet firmly dead center and
started in on the first verse of Shirley
Temple’s famous song, “The Good Ship
Lollipop.” Astounded, the other children
on stage forgot their lines, let their jaws
di-op, and stared. A giggle went up from
the parents, and then another. The child
paused, said, “Sssshhhhh!” and began
again. And Clark Gable started to laugh.
It began with his usual chuckle, passed
slowly into a roar, then into a bellow, then
into a choke. With Kay pounding him on
the back and tears streaming down his
cheeks, he staggered out of his seat and
into the aisle. He was still laughing when
he got outside, and an hour later, when he
picked the kids up backstage, he con-
tinued to crack up every now and then.

That night, as they lay quietly in the
dark, Kay said thoughtfully: “Clark — you
know, this is the first time I’ve seen you
able to relax that much. You looked —
at peace tonight.”

In the dark, he smiled. And he real-
ized a man would be a fool to want some-
thing he’s already got. He had two chil-
dren already . . .

Yes, Clark Gable told himself, remem-
bering, as he measured coffee into the
electric percolator in the silent kitchen —

a man can survive tragedy and come out
smiling.

The coffee began to perk in the pot,
noisily, but Clark scarcely heard it. His
mind had filled again with other sounds,
from other times. He remembered the
night, only such a short time after Kay
had recovered from the loss of their child,
when again she had cried out in sudden
pain, when again the doctor had come
with his reassuring voice — and terrifying
words:

“Let’s get her back to the hospital, Mr.
Gable. There’s something going on around
her heart!”

The dragging hours . . . The lonely trip
to the diner for coffee; the hurried walk
back to the hospital. And at last, the
doctor:

“Angina Pectoris. A very painful and
dangerous condition of the heart. But with
care, she’ll be all right.”

With care!

In his great burst of relief, Clark scarce-
ly heard the words. But Kay, coming
slowly out of her illness, heard them over
and over in her mind. Care, for a heart
patient, meant practically invalidism. Long
hours of rest. No strenuous activity. Not
too many steps to climb, not too many
parcels to carry. Hunting? Fishing?
Camping? Out of the question.

She had married Clark Gable to make
him happy, to share with him his pleasures,
to join with him in his rugged life, to be
his companion. Now, her heart wept, she
was to tie him instead to a house, a bed-
room, an ailing woman. Of course, he
protested none of that mattered. Of
course, he told her, as he had told her
before, that all he wanted was to be with
her — anywhere, anyhow. Of course, he
meant it.

By the time she was out of the hospital
and home, other people had begun to
speculate about what Kay’s illness might
do to the marriage. The columns were full
of hints, veiled in sympathy, of the de-
struction Kay’s weakness could cause.

Clark, reading them, slammed the pa-
pers down in fury. Kay did not. She bit
her lips thoughtfully.

It was then she vowed she was not going
to be an invalid.

She was going to be Clark’s wife, just
as she’d always planned.

She was going to get well.

And with a resolution stronger than any
medicine, she set about her own cure.

At first she pushed too fast. Clark,
leaving her to nap, would come home to
find her cleaning bureau drawers, sorting

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the children’s clothes. Firmly, he would
take her back to the bed. “Kay, please. For
me. For the kids. Rest!”

“I’m not tired.”

“If you don’t stop all this activity, you
will be.”

“Good. I’ll rest then!”

She might have done herself serious
damage if a friend hadn’t spoken up. “Kay,
don’t think I don’t know what you’re try-
ing to do. I know. And I believe in you.
You’ll succeed. But only if you take it easy
now. Otherwise you’ll make yourself so
ill you won’t have a chance.”

She stared at her friend with bright
eyes. “You think I can do it? Get better?
Go fishing again — everything?”

“Everything. Everyone who knows you
knows you can do it. Only take it slow!”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will. You really
think it will work, don’t you!”

She felt, after that, as if not only her
own will, but those of hundreds of others
were working for her. She took strength
from her friends, from her children, from
the thousands of letters and cards that
poured in from Clark’s fans. She took
strength from the look in her husband’s
eyes when, over and over again, he gently
persuaded her to take a nap now, a rest
later. The look that said: “I understand.
Believe me, it isn’t necessary — but I love
you all the more for what you’re doing.
My wonderful wife — ”

And she got well.

Clark poured coffee into a cup and sat
staring into it. He could remember
still the first time after the attack
when she’d slid beside him into a heated
swimming pool, and paddled the length
of it. He could remember the first time
she’d packed their bags to go fishing again.
The first time she’d gone with him on a
long walk. Those nights he had wakened
a dozen times to make sure she was all
right, had leaned on his elbow until the
sound of her quiet breathing convinced
him that she slept peacefully.

He could remember now how slowly,
quietly, almost unnoticeably, she’d brought
the old way of life back to them again — a
little slower, to be sure, a little gentler, a
little more concerned with not being out
too late, fishing too long, walking too far —
but still, the old, beloved life. He could
remember the times when she’d paled
suddenly or gasped and he’d said, “What
is it? What is it?” Always she had man-
aged a smile for him. Always she’d said,
“Don’t worry. It’s nothing. I’ll rest a little,
that’s all — ” Then, for a day or two, while
he hovered anxiously, she would take it
easy, nap in the afternoon, cancel a date
or two. But by the end of a week, she
would be back in stride again.

Finally he’d talked to the doctor about
it. “Doctor, tell me, should I let her do all
this?”

The doctor had smiled. “Mr. Gable, you
try to stop her and you’ll do her more
harm than four heart attacks. She’s learn-
ing how much she can and can’t do; she’s
taking care of herself. You have an ex-
traordinary wife, my friend. I didn’t cure
her. Medicine didn’t cure her. You know
what brought her around this way?”

“Will power,” he said.

The doctor nodded. “But what gave her
the will power? One thing. I think you call
it — love.”

I think you call it love.

Yes, Clark Gable thought now, holding
the coffee cup. You call it love, and it’s
all that matters. If you get it, it doesn’t
matter if it comes from another man’s
children or your own. It doesn’t matter if
it comes from an amazon or someone a
little more fragile. It’s the love that counts.

—ROBERTA DOWNS

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Continued jrom page 41

Debbie curls up on the huge couch in
the living room and frowns a little as she
tries to answer the questions so many of
you young people have asked her. There
is still that little girl quality about her,
but as she talks, there is a difference. A
tremendous difference that a year has
made. A year ago, Debbie would not have
talked so frankly . . .

But now she thinks deeply — and tells
what she’s thinking. She feels — and lets
those feelings show. The difference in
Debbie is that some of the wonder has
gone out of those clear green eyes, and in
its place is a look of knowledge and wis-
dom. Now, even as she cuddles Todd on
her lap and laughs at something Carrie
says, even as she talks about marriage
and how Agnes, the childre n s nursemaid,
got married, she is different. She is sure,
she says, that Agnes will be happy, be-
cause she didn’t rush into anything. And
then she sighs and says, “I’m not the
most informed person on the subject of
marriage. Much of what I tried to do in
marriage was wrong. But at least I know
I was wrong . . . Unless you learn from
experience you might as well be a vege-
table. You know, it’s a funny thing,” she
adds. “My mother was married at sixteen
and it’s been a wonderful marriage; but
some of my friends were married at six-
teen and they’ve been through a couple
of divorces. They just weren’t ready, and
you can’t rush life. One problem, I think,
is that girls try to act older than they are.
You have to act your age. and not every-
one’s age is the same — even at the same
age. I know I was pretty immature at fif-
teen and I’d have been a loon to act
otherwise. I try to tell this to kids who
ask me for advice. Just be yourself.

“You know, when they played kissing
games — ‘Spotlight’ was the big deal when I
was a kid — I was always the one who shone
the light. I just wasn’t ready for kissing.
There are girls who try to act like women
long before they are, who think they have
to belong to a hep crowd, go steady, neck
and all that. There’s plenty of time to
meet the man of your life when you’re
still in high school, so why not relax, be
natural, and be yourself, and your own
age.”

And then she remembers how once a
boy came over to her in the schoolyard
and asked, “Hey, Frannie, how about a
date Saturday night at the movies?”

“What for?” she said.

“Why, just for a date.”

“You really want to see the movie or
you just want to neck?” she answered.

“You can bet I didn’t get asked to too
many movies,” Debbie laughs now. And
Todd leans way back to see why his
mommy is laughing, a good sound to hear,
a tickling sound, even if he doesn’t know
what the joke is about.

“I remember my first date,” Debbie says
finally. “I was ten years old and this little
blond boy, who lived on our street, took
me to the movies five blocks away. A
matinee. It cost him a nickel, and seeing
him march up to that box-office to buy
those tickets, sitting next to him through
the movie — I scarcely knew what I saw,
I was so busy feeling like a girl for the
very first time.

“And I remember my first kiss. I was
fourteen then. We’d been to a party and
this was a goodnight kiss, but it was
strictly a chicken peck — like a pigeon fly-
ing by and kissing a hen. He was as scared
as I was. That kiss lasted all of a fourth
of a second. I told no one, just kept it

to myself for a day or two trying to decide
if all kisses were like his. I felt so
grown-up.

“But not for long. Even in high school,

I was ‘a square,’ ” she says. “A very busy
square, but still a square. There was band
practice and volleyball and the Girl Scouts.
We wore our Girl Scout uniforms and all
our mad medals. I was never a glamour
girl, and so far as boys were concerned,
they were just for playing baseball. I loved
playing baseball with them, but at any-
thing like a party, I was off familiar
ground; my mouth got dry, I didn’t know
what to say, but I knew I’d much rather
be out on the street playing Kick the Can.

“Five other girls and myself even
formed the NN Club. NN meant non-
neckers. Then one girl went off and kissed
a boy and we had to change the name of
our club to the NNN — nearly non-neckers.

I think I was really a little afraid of
boys, so I pretended 1 didn’t care about
them. I didn’t wear lipstick and when
anyone took me to a dance, once a year,
it was strictly for laughs. I wasn’t pretty
so I made myself the school character.
Anything cuckoo, you could count on me.
I loved to be funny, to clown around and
do whatever came into my head . . .”

There are a lot of little things girls have
to learn in growning up. Debbie says she
had to learn as she went along — things
like dressing, for instance.

“I never did have a lot of clothes. I re-
member the first high-school prom. I
must have been fifteen. It was during the
war, and we didn’t have money for a
formal. I knew it, my mother and dad
knew it, so we didn’t even discuss it. A
neighbor gave Mother an old, black taffeta
dress of hers (I’ve never worn taffeta
since) with black velvet lining and black
velvet sleeves, and Mother almost went
crazy trying to make that thirty-five-year-
old’s dress kind of look fifteen. She put
pink tulle net at the top (I’ve never worn
anything with net since) and I wore gold
and black flats, if you can imagine. Oh, I
was the one. I had absolutely no taste and
even if I did, I had no money. When I
went to Warner Brothers' studio the first
day, I wore a new dress that I bought in
a bargain basement. It cost eight dollars —
a tremendous amount of money for us at
that time — and it was grey, with a tailored
top, full skirt, and purple— did you get
that? — string tie.

“Clothes aren’t everything, but they do
mean something. If you don’t know how
to dress, look at etiquette books, maga-
zines and clothes in movies. Watch what
kind of clothes are worn for special occa-
sions. I remember the first suit I ever
wore. It was a blue suit with a grey chalk
stripe and was made for me for ‘I Love
Melvin.’ I wanted that suit so badly for
myself, that I finally summoned up enough
courage to go to the head of M-G-M and
ask to buy it. The studio gave me the suit
and for years after that, I wore it every-
where— right occasions and wrong occa-
sions— until gradually I learned that, good
as a tailored suit is, it isn’t perfect for all
times and places.”

Then there were other things, like learn-
ing which was the fish fork and the ice-
cream spoon. The first time Debbie went to
an expensive restaurant, she was already a
nineteen-year-old movie actress, and
when she and her date entered the res-
taurant, she didn’t know what to do. Fi-
nally, she told her date to “go ahead.” He
smiled politely and mentioned that she
was supposed to go first and follow the
waiter!

Working in the movies, Debbie really
began to grow. She was seeing sights she’d
never seen before, going to smart restau-
rants which she’d only read about until

MV'"

then. Things that happen to every young
girl for the first time, no matter how
small, took on great import for her. She
remembers now, through the years, her
first corsage — not the one her beau’s moth-
er made from flowers picked from the
garden for him to give her on the night of
the prom — but the excitement of her first
corsage from a florist with a card enclosed!

She sat shy and nervous — maybe more
scared than anything — in the posh Pump
Room of the Ambassador Hotel in Chi-
cago. It was just as glamorous as a movie-
set to her. Never before had she seen such
elegance: Soft lights, sweet music, per-
fumed ladies in gorgeous evening gowns,
i, waiters dressed in Oriental costumes.

It was a room for romance, for soft words
from an admirer, for maybe even a bit
of hand-holding,” Debbie recalls. “But it
i wasn’t very romantic being there with my
mother! Romance — where was it?”

Then a waiter came up to the table with
a beautiful corsage of orchids, and pre-
sented it to Debbie. “From an admirer,”
said the waiter, indicating a far-off Romeo
in the corner of the room. Debbie stole a
glance in that direction, but couldn't
distinguish the face in the dim light.
“There must be some mistake,” she said,
i hugging her flowers, then giving them an
| experimental perch on her shoulder. Then
she looked at the card. “From George,” it
read. She didn’t know anybody named
George. “They’re not for me,” she said
disappointedly. “But thanks just the same.”
“But Mr. Jessel said . . .”

Debbie accepted the flowers. She had ap-
j peared at a benefit performance which
had starred George Jessel. “How nice,”
I she said, not letting her voice show that
|! her romantic dream was shattered.

Now she can laugh about it — that’s the
big thing — she can laugh at herself. “Of
I course,” she says, twisting a piece of hair
around her finger, “there were other cor-
sages, but somehow you always remember
your first. . . .

“It was in Chicago I took my first step
toward independence, too. For the first
time in my life I was on my own. Was
that something!” And again she laughs.
This time the children don’t seem to care
what the joke is. Carrie is absorbed in
running a bright red truck along the win-
dow-sill by the huge, picture window. And
Todd — whose truck it is — has wriggled out
of his mother’s arms and is crawling de-
terminedly toward his big sister. He means
to repossess his favorite toy. For a mo-
ment, Debbie watches them, then she re-
turns to the conversation.

“You see,” she says, “my mother had
to return to California for a short time.
And so there I was — all alone in the hotel
room — I felt so grown-up, but I was kind
of afraid, too. I don’t know what I was
afraid of exactly.

“But I’d never been in a big city alone at
night. I only lived a block away from the
theater and Carleton Carpenter — the boy
I was doing an act with — usually saw that
I got back after the late show. But some-
times, just to be on my own, I’d race him
out of the theater to try my solo wings.
Actually, nothing really unpleasant or very
frightening happened.

“But once a man came up to me on the
street. My stomach fluttered. He seemed
so close. I hurried on. He paced his steps
faster to keep up with me. Had they moved
the hotel? It seemed I would never get to
the Sherman. My mouth felt dry. I tried
to speak, to tell him to go away. I’d lost
my voice! Holding my head high and
haughty, I stopped as he moved in front
of me.

“ ‘You needn’t be so high and mighty,’ he
said pleasantly. ‘I just wanted to tell
you that I enjoyed your performance!’ I

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hope I thanked him. I felt ashamed for
having been fearful, of not knowing how
to handle a small and usual situation that
happens in any big city.

Now if a man came up to me in the
street, I wouldn’t be the least bit
afraid or apprehensive. I would merely
give him a cool look and ask him what was
on his mind. Little fears can grow, or they
can vanish — even big fears sometimes. It
all depends on how we attack them. Cer-
tainly money’s not the answer. Neither is
success. Other than feeling a responsibility
toward the people who gave me work, and
the people who came to my pictures and
bought my records, I don’t think I feel
any different now, about most things, than
I ever did. Money and success give a cer-
tain sense of security, but security with
a capital S is something different. It’s some-
thing you have within you, not to start
with always, but it grows. As things hap-
pen to you. in life, you make gains in
this direction sometimes, only to lose them
at others when fate touches you from time
to time.

“I am so anxious to have my children
feel that sense of inner security from
now on.” Again a cloud comes over
Debbie’s face. But not for long. Soon she
gives a little laugh and comes back to the
questions you’ve written to her about.

“I used to be uneasy with boys, for in-
stance. What young girl isn’t? But as you
get to meet more people, you acquire
more easiness. If you learn to take the
good in them, it helps. But all kinds of
people prove a help, not a hindrance, to
growth

‘‘Now I am as comfortable in the com-
pany of men as I am with women. A man
is not a foreigner to me any more. I tried
to grow in faith as I discovered worth-
while qualities in the people I met along
the way. I think I have more faith now
than ever before.

“Through my children I have learned a
larger sense of values,” she says, looking
ovR- at them as they play with the red
truck together by the window. “You give
them life — they give you yours. And teach-
ing a child is a great privilege, as well as
a source of self-revitalization. For instance,
one day Carrie and I were out in the
garden examining some new buds, when
a huge caterpillar appeared. At first, Carrie
was enchanted with his furry coat and
patted him as if he were a kitten. But as
he slithered around the bark of the tree,
he took on a menacing appearance and
she withdrew from him, suggesting that
he must be dangerous and perhaps should
be killed.

“I explained that he would shed his furry
coat if we let him live and some day he
would become a butterfly and fly over the
garden, look down at the flowers and get
to meet the buds. This fascinated her and
she waited through the months for her
butterfly. One day, one appeared, lighting
on the petal of a flower, its iridescent
wings fluttering in the sunlight. ‘There’s
our kittyiller, she screamed delightedly,
‘the one we let live.’

This put me in a philosophical mood. I
couldn’t help but think how much we
all resemble caterpillars in a way. If
we overcome the evils that surround us, if
we protect ourselves from hurts, real or
imaginary, if we weather the storms that
threaten to do us in, we too emerge.

“I didn’t tell Carrie that the butterfly
only had a short time to enjoy the flowers
and the sunlight. To the lovely creature
it was a lifetime, as butterflies know it. . .
I guess you grow by helping others grow.”

Debbie is thoughtful and silent for a
moment. She seems to be considering
something important.

“I think we all grow through disappoint-
ments,” she says at last. “We learn that we
ask too much of others. Lately, since my
change of marital status, I have noticed
this considerably. Friends don’t call so
often. When you’re married, you are in-
vited with your husband to dinner parties I
at friends’ houses. You are part of a group
You belong. Then, suddenly, you find
yourself a single woman, a sort of fifth
wheel, I suppose, to a hostess. Who wants
an extra woman? It hurts not to b«
asked, but not as much as it did at first. . .

“But if you are disappointed in people
it is because you have expected too much
of them. If you blame other people for youi
problems, you’re shifting the blame
They’re your problems — whether you mads
them or not.”

There is no bitterness in Debbie’s voice a;
she says these things, just a slight hint o
regret.

“Sometimes,” she continues a little wist-
fully perhaps, “places in our lives seem sc
puzzling and make so little sense, that it’:
pretty hard to think big. But, when some
thing changes your whole life, you havi
to face it in an adult way. I want to bi
a mature person. I am not entirely so yel
but I am working toward that growth.”

For some moments, she says nothing. Tb
children play quietly in the corner, am
soon Debbie begins talking again. “It’
funny how people learn through every
thing that happens to them, the good am
the bad,” she says thoughtfully. “I think th
"bad things are basically our own fault, al
though sometimes it’s hard to realize thi:
or to understand where we have failec
But I know I have learned to think in
larger way through the various ups an
downs of life. Small things do not upse
me any more. Small problems are not
lifetime thing. To be disturbed by then
shows a weakness and a lack of values. . .

“The world is so big and there are s
many people in it with so many problems-
many of them basically the same. Or
person is a very small part of it. Whe
we were in Hawaii, last summer, and th
children picked up a few words of Japa
nese, I thought of how many little Japanes
children there were, playing on a beac
in their own country, probably pickir
up a few words of English. To travel an
to learn other languages and other custon
is a broadening experience. But the grea>
est teacher is life itself, and living it j
best as one can through all the big ar
small joys and sorrows, living it wii
dignity and with love.

“To live well, you must live with and f<
others, and according to your beliefs,
you have faith, you can accomplish an;
thing. Above all, you can become yourse .
the very best self you are capable of bein
That’s the only advice I can give to youi
people right now . . .” — Dorothy DL

SEE DEBBIE IN “THE GAZEBO” FOR M-G-M AI
“THE RAT race” FOR PARAMOUNT. LISTEN '
HER SING ON THE DOT LABEL, AND BE SURE '

watch for debbie’s specials on abc-i

•

ANSWERS TO LAST MONTH'S PUZZLE

“e

TROY DONAHUE

Continued from page 42

ried to concentrate. Where was he? How
id he get here? What was wrong with
im?

He tried to sit up. He wanted to get out
if bed, but he couldn’t. He was in pain;
is whole body felt like one big bruise,
'hen he heard a door open and footsteps
loming toward him. His head ached and
(lings started going hazy, but he could
lake out the blur of a man, a shiny
tethoscope hanging outside his white
acket. The man leaned over him. smiled,
nd patted his shoulder reassuringly. I’m
ii a hospital, Troy thought, but how did
get here? What’s wrong with me? He
ied hard to remember, but his head
ched so. Everything was hazy . . .
j Then it hit him. Today was the day of
is screen test — he’d been rehearsing for
for weeks. As he tried to get up, he fell
iack, too weak. He made one last effort
5 drag himself out of the bed, but it was
o use. All he could do was lie there, tell—
jig himself, “I must get to the phone, I
lust call Columbia Studios,” but he
ouldn’t and he must have passed out
gain, for when he woke it was dark. It
fas funny, he thought, as he lay there,
Ills was to be the most important day in
is life. Something went wrong, he still
ouldn’t remember what that something
ras. All he knew was that he was badly
ijured and had been unconscious for two
ays and had missed his big chance.

He tried, during the next few hours of
[lonsciousness, in between the drowsiness
rought; on by sedatives given to ease
re pain, to pick out the events that led
p to the accident. But they only came
; tack to him in part. He remembered the
hone ringing. It was a friend. “I’ve just
nished taking my bar exams. Boy. were
ley rough! I feel like celebrating,” he’d
rid and asked Troy to come along.
“Great,” he’d answered. “I’ve got some-
ring to celebrate, too. No, I'll tell you
bout it when I see you.”

They had dinner at a good restaurant —
rey didn’t have the money but they felt
ke splurging — and then they went on to
: party. Just before they left, someone
rok a picture of him, saying. “Just some-
ring to remember you by.” He thought
ow ironic it was — after what happened
fter that. They were riding along Malibu
'anyon road — a narrow winding road — he
: rought how he’d driven those curves at
;ast a hundred times before. But that
lght, as he was steering around the bend,

. happened. His small car started to skid;
e didn’t know why, but he felt the pain in
is arms as he struggled to maneuver the
/heel against the force that sent the
ar crashing through a wooden guard
ailing . . .

He could remember the rolling down
he mountainside and then, the sudden
top . . . and only darkness.

What happened after that was hazy. He
emembered getting out of the car and
eeing that the car was demolished. The
irst thing he did was look for his friend
ut he couldn’t find him. It was then that
e noticed — almost by a miracle — the car
ad rolled only part way down the moun-
1 ainside and had been stopped by a clump
f trees. He stood looking down, at the
harp 250 foot drop below him. until he
eard a call and saw his friend waving at
ae top. His friend had been thrown clear
nto the road when they hit the rail, he
uddenly realized, and slowly began climb-
ag up the mountain toward him. Only
vhen he reached the top he knew, by his
riend s reaction, that he was pretty bat-

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tered and, looking at himself for the first
time, he saw that his clothes were covered
with blood.

“You okay, Troy?” his friend cried
frantically. But he couldn't answer. He
went into shock.

Within a few minutes, they were picked
up and driven to a nearby emergency
hospital; he could not remember any of
this.

The doctor came back into the room.
“Somebody must certainly be watch-
ing over you, son,” he smiled. “You’ve
a slight concussion — we had to put forty
stitches in that scalp wound — and the rest
of you is pretty badly bruised. But you’ll
be all right in a couple of weeks,” he said
reassuringly as he leaned over and gave
him a little white pill. He sipped some
water through a glass straw and watched
the doctor walk around to the foot of the
bed and pick up his chart. “After an acci-
dent like that one, you should be dead,”
the doctor said, almost to himself, then
looked up. “I don’t know who you are,
just your name here on the chart, but He
must be saving you for something special
— something very special.”

He watched the doctor leave the room.
His head still ached, but it felt a little
better when he closed his eyes. He could
still hear the doctor’s words echoing in
his mind. 1 don’t know who you are . . .
who you are . . . who you are . . .

He was Merle Johnson, Jr., he said over
and over to himself in a sing-song way as
though almost trying to convince himself.
He was born in New York City on Janu-
ary 27, 1937. He loved his mother. She was
once an actress. That was how she’d met
his father, when she appeared in a play
that he wrote and directed. His father
was dead He wanted to be an actor. He
always did.

In fact, the very first time he ran away
from home was because he wanted to act,
like his mother had. He packed a box of
animal crackers, took his roller skates, an
apple and a shiny copper penny which
seemed to him to be enough to start him
on his way. He snuck out of the house
and walked slowly down the block, all the
while turning his head to see if someone
was coming after him. He didn’t see his
mother, who watched from the front win-
dow and let him get just far enough away
to think he’d managed his escape, before
she went running down the walk after
him. He was two years old

A few years later, his family moved to
a big house, with lots of rooms that kind
of rambled, in Bayport, on Long Island,
and that’s where he started school. He
hadn’t changed his mind about being an
actor but, just then, the most important
thing was to make the other kids like
him.

At first they didn’t; he was different.
The minute he got to the schoolyard —
when he saw all the kids staring at him —
he knew that something was wrong. He
quickly glanced down at the new gray
flannel suit his mother had bought for his
first day at school and, reassured, he
walked past the other kids and on into
the school building. But all through class
he could feel their eyes on him.

“What’s wrong?” he kept asking himself
and then, when the bell finally rang and
all the kids filed out into the schoolyard,
he found out.

Suddenly, from behind him, a bunch of
boys grabbed his arms and pulled him
toward a tree at the side of the play-
ground, where they tied him, Indian-
style. “Look at the sissy,” they shouted
between hoots of laughter as they danced
around him in a circle. “That’s a ni-i-i-ce
suit,” they chanted, pretending to admire
it. Then he knew; they were all dressed

in jeans and most of them wore tee shirts.

When they finally untied him, he flung
out his arms in rage, pushing the four to
the ground. Then he ran home, trying
to hold back his tears, and told his mother
he’d never wear that suit again — never!

That afternoon, his mother bought him
his first pair of blue jeans and the next
morning he turned up at school in the
most beat-up outfit of any boy in the
class. On the way, he’d rubbed dirt all
over his shirt and torn a hole in the knee
of his jeans with his pen-knife. When he
got to school, he walked proudly into the
yard, sure that by getting dirty he was
now one of them.

After that, school wasn’t so bad, except
for the day the principal called his mother
and asked her to come down to the school
to see him. They talked for a few minutes
and the principal told her how nicely her
son was adjusting to school. Then he took
off his glasses and started polishing them
with a big white handkerchief. Finally
he gave an embarrassed cough and
looked over at the pretty, well-dressed
woman who sat across the desk from him
trying to hide her concern.

“Mrs. Johnson,” he began in a gentk
voice, “Merle obviously comes from sucl
a nice home that we— his teacher and I—
wonder why you send him to school ir
such dirty clothes?”

His mother guessed, right away, that h<
changed back into his clean clothes a;
soon as he reached home but she didn’
give him away. That afternoon, when hi
got home, they had a long talk and afte
that he wore his clean jeans to school
Surprisingly, he found it no longer madi
any difference to the other kids.

Life was a breeze but when he’d jus
i turned eleven, he was asked to grov
up quickly. It was the beginning o
three terrible, confusing years.

One afternoon after school, when h
arrived home, he found the doctor then
His dad was sick. “Amystrophic latera
sclerosis,” the doctor told his mother. I
rare disease with a strange-soundin
name, but he knew what it was. He’
heard that Lou Gehrig, the baseball her<
had the same kind of paralysis of th
spinal cord and had died of it.

“Will my dad die, too?” he wanted t
ask the doctor, but when he tried h
couldn’t say the word, die, so he didn
ask.

His sister Evie was only two and a ha
then, and she couldn’t understand wh
Daddy couldn’t pick her up or take hi
for piggyback rides. And after a while, h
couldn’t speak, he’d lost the power to d
so.

Three years after that afternoon, whe
he was fourteen, his father died. The bi
house was now full with women: h
grandmother, his mother and his siste
He was the man of the house, they tol
him, but deep inside, he didn’t feel lik
one. But he tried, for their sake, to pla
his new role.

The big house seemed strange withoi
his father. They talked about him ofte:<
trying to do what he would have wante
them all to do. Like college. “Perhaps, tl
University of Michigan,” his mother suj;
gested. “Your father went there.”

But he didn’t want to go to college, t
wanted to go to New York to study ac
ing. He had to make his own life. So, ;
eighteen, he ran away from home one
again. This time, he didn’t have to snei
out of the house. He simply stuffed ;
many belongings as he could into a bea
up leather suitcase and headed for Ne
York. The suitcase had belonged to h
father, and it was still covered with trav
stickers from all over the world. He ke
it beside him as he sat looking out tl

window of the train. It was only a short
i trip — Bayport is within commuting dis-
tance of New York— and yet he knew he’d
i never come back this way unless he had
proved himself.

He spent that year in New York, work-
ing as a messenger boy to support him-
self and pay for his acting lessons with
' Ezra Stone. When Christmas came, and
he still hadn’t gotten anywhere, he felt
i strangely apart from the cheerful crowds
on the streets and in the stores. When he
was invited to a party, he decided that at
least it was better than sitting alone in
his room, so he went.

He was sitting on the floor, glumly
|i watching the others celebrate, when a
girl, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen,
| walked in. She was gay and smiling and
! she walked straight over to him. “Having
; fun?” she asked.

“Not so far,” he told her.

She took off the expensive full-length
j mink coat she was wearing, and tossed it
on the chair next to him. “Okay,” she
I) laughed, “if you aren’t having any fun,
you might just as well sit here and watch
my coat!”

i Fifteen minutes later, the girl came
i back, her eyes wide with amazement.

| “You really are guarding it,” she said.
He nodded and indicated a vacant space
on the floor next to him. She slid down
beside him and they introduced them-
selves. She told him that she was a model,
but hoped for a career on the stage. He
told her about his acting ambitions, but he
! wound up admitting that, at the moment,

< he was a messenger boy. “So what?” she
!j shrugged, laughing. A nice laugh, he
;! thought.

They went together for the next six
months. It was fun and kind of wonder-
jl ful. Is this love? he wondered. He wasn’t
sure, but he scrimped his money every
I way he could, to try to take her to nice
places.

Then, accidentally, he found out why
, there were so many nights when she
| couldn’t see him. She was dating someone
else, someone who wasn’t a messenger
i boy, someone who could afford to take
her to places where a mink coat wasn’t
1 out of place. The night he found out, he’d
ij walked the streets in the midtown theater

< and movie district. At every marquee, he
made himself a promise. He’d succeed.
He’d go to Hollywood.

Hollywood was tougher than New York.
He couldn’t seem to make progress.
During the day, he worked at Com-
mercial Film Industry for a friend of his
father’s, Mr. Brady, and at night he en-
rolled in Pierce College for some night
i classes in journalism. Next to acting, he
loved writing and he’d already had four
short stories published. Then one night,

> after classes, he stopped at “The Golden
Pheasant,” a restaurant in the San Fer-
■ nando Valley. Dressed casually in slacks,
a white shirt open at the neck and a
' ; sailor’s navy jacket, he entered the cafe
! and took a table in the back. He was un-
aware that, sitting in a front booth, two
men were watching him. He’d just ordered
coffee and a piece of pie, when the two
men walked over and introduced them-
selves.

“I’m Mr. Asher,” one of them said, “and
this is Mr. Sheldon.” He looked at them
curiously but, before he could say any-
thing, the man asked, “You must be a
truckdriver, but have you ever thought
of becoming an actor?”

He stared at the two men in front of
him. Now he knew why the name Sheldon
rang a bell: thjs was the man who had
discovered Jimmy Dean. But he couldn’t
believe what was happening. It was too
much like fiction.

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He finally answered. “Yes, I’ve thought
about it a lot.”

“Good,” Asher said. “Where can I get
in touch with you? I’ll set up a screen
test.”

His hand shook as he tore a piece of
paper out of his notebook and wrote down
his phone number. Then the men smiled,
paid their check, and left. Watching them
go, Troy still couldn’t believe it was hap-
pening. Maybe they’re not who they say
they are, he thought. Maybe they’re just
kidding me. But the next day, just as he’d
said, Mr. Asher called and gave him his
appointment for a screen test. It was set
for today. . . .

He opened his eyes and stared straight
ahead of him at the closed hospital door.
That’s who I am, he thought, the boy who
waited all his life for his big chance and
then missed it.

During that next week in the hospital,
the bad news had come. He’d missed his
screen test. Columbia was no longer in-
terested. They made no alternate appoint-
ment. He might have brooded if it were
not for a remark of one of the doctors.

“God must be saving you for something
special, for you should be dead by now.”

Something special, the doctor had said.
And he realized, he was lucky to be alive.
He’d had to come that close to death to
make himself look back at all the things
that had been his life, all the things that
added up to bring him to just the moment
where he was. He was alive. That was
something special. Nothing else mattered.
And he realized the significance of the
words and he believed: He had been
saved for something special. He had been
given the gift of living.

The story, which started out as a near
tragic beginning, does have a happy end-
ing. With the help of Mr. Asher and Mr.
Sheldon and the encouragement of actress
Fran Bennett, who introduced him to
agent Henry Willson, Troy got his chance
at another screen test. The results of that
test you know already, for you’ve seen
Troy’s name on your local theater mar-
quee: Sandra Dee and Troy Donahue,
in Warners’ “A Summer Place,” and will
be seeing him soon in Warners’ “The
Crowded Sky.” The End

MARLON BRANDO

Continued from page 39

“Brandeau,” of which his father, and his
father’s father, and all the Brandeaus be-
fore them were rightfully proud. No, that
would have made things even worse. So
when the other kids chanted, “Brando,
Brando, no such name on sea or land-o,”
or more crudely, “Marlon is a fish . . .
Marlon is a fish . . . Marlon is a fish,” he
had no choice but to fight.

It was impossible to beat all the kids
who teased and taunted him, but never-
theless he tried. But in the end he just
wasn’t strong enough to lick everybody.
So it was almost with a sense of relief
that he looked forward to moving to
Libertyville, Illinois. For one thing, it was
much smaller than Evanston — only two
thousand people; it was easier to know
kids in a small town. And they’d be living
in a big rambling house in the country.
There’d be animals all around and he
wouldn’t have to have many friends.

But he found out that a small town
can be crueler than a big one. In Liberty-
ville, the kids called him “fatty” and
“four eyes” and they convinced him he
was ugly. He did have bad teeth and had
to have horrible braces to straighten them.
He did have weak eyes and had to wear
thick-lensed glasses. And he was heavier
than most of the kids.

He tried to do something to make the
kids stop laughing at him, so he’d take
off his glasses and pull out his braces as
soon as he was out of sight of his parents.
In desperation, he answered one of those
ads in a physical culture magazine: “You
can be the strongest fellow in your neigh-
borhood within ninety days. Build up
your body in the privacy of your own
room. Results guaranteed or double your
money back.”

For weeks, he worked out regularly
with barbells and dumbbells and did push-
ups and other exercises. Every Saturday
he measured the muscles of his arms and
legs with a tape-measure and marked
the results in a little notebook. By the
end of a month, there were changes: his
body was firmer and he definitely felt bet-
ter. But something else seemed to be hap-
pening— much more important than losing
weight or building muscles or stopping the
kids from laughing at him. He seemed to
be winning the approval of his father.

Winning his father’s approval was some- ;
how tied in with the whole problem
of his father and mother. Mom and
Dad were just so different from each other.
They wanted and demanded such different
things from him. He was all mixed-up. He
didn’t know who to please or how to
please. It just seemed that anything he
did that his mother liked, his father
frowned upon.

It was almost impossible to put his feel-
ings about his parents into words. It had
something to do with the fact that his
mother was very beautiful, very talkative,
and very full of life. She had bobbed hair
and bangs and was interested in books, i
and music, and art, and the troubles of the
world. She always had strange people over
the house — artists and writers and people
like that — who’d argue and get all excited '
when they talked, and who treated him as
if he understood all the complicated
things they were saying. And it seemed
it also had something to do with the fact i
that his father was a solid, conventional
businessman, president of a Chicago com-
pany that manufactured animal feed and
fertilizer — a calm, untalkative gentleman
who only shook his head in bewilderment
when his wife talked about modern paint- t
ing, or James Joyce, or the need to abol- n
ish war. 1 [

His father approved of his trying to a
build up his body. Then, he didn’t know a
why, his dr.d retreated into silence, and ii
he again was faced with the problem: h
What can I do that will make him happy?
What can I do that will make him like
me? Years later, when he finally learned
to understand and accept his father, Mar-
lon Brando was able to find words for what
he had felt in boyhood. “My father was
indifferent to me,” he said. “Nothing I
could do interested him or pleased him.”

It was only natural, then, that he began
to feel very close to his mother, even
though she was flighty and moody and
there was some mysterious ailment that
she had, but what people whispered about
was never made clear to him. He was sure
she loved him but she was so high-strung,
so changeable, it was sometimes hard to
tell.

Somewhere along the way he decided
that animals were more dependable
than people. Whenever he’d see a sick
animal he’d always take it home and care &
for it.

He didn’t understand it then, his quick,
sudden, overwhelming sympathy for the l|

injured and rejected. It was only years
later that he came to realize that it was
because he himself felt like such an out-
sider that his heart went out to anything
that was different from others. Besides,
animals were loyal; animals didn’t hurt
you; animals weren’t fickle and changeable
or cold and indifferent; animals couldn’t
break your heart.

Despite his mother’s convictions that a
boy should be allowed to do anything he
wanted, the law required that he go to
school, and go to school he did. Gentleness
and concern and love worked with animals
but he found it didn’t work with people.
Eventually his fists won him the respect of
his classmates but somehow that wasn’t
enough.

At a birthday party, for instance, he
calmly set fire to his flannel shirt. The
other kids screamed in terror while he
stood unmoving in the middle of the room,
grinning widely, until the flames went out.
By accident, he had found out the day be-
fore that a certain brand of cotton flannel
would flare up brightly for a few minutes
and then go out by itself — and he played
the trick.

In high school, he baited the teachers,
that is, when he showed up at all. Once
a class was in an uproar when the teacher
entered the room. “Order, order,” she
yelled as she rapped sharply on the desk.
“Make mine a beer,” Marlon called out.

He did very badly in his class work, but
very well on the football field. There, all
the exercising he’d done with barbells
and dumbbells finally paid off. He was on
the way to being Mr. Big, a football hero,
but the one person he wanted to impress,
his father, didn’t seem to care. One after-
noon he broke his right kneecap and frac-
tured his left leg badly in several places.
His football career was over. But it didn’t
matter. Nothing mattered. When they’d
cheered him from the stands the one voice
he wanted to hear, his dad’s, was always
silent.

Then came the afternoon he was never
to forget. The day he discovered the
real nature of his mother’s illness. He’d
come home to an empty house — empty
halls, empty rooms, empty ice-box. Dad
was off at work, his sisters were visiting
somewhere, and his mother — who knew
where she might be? “Hullo,” he hollered,
“hullo. Anybody home?” Although he
knew, even when he heard the sound of
his own voice, that no one was home. He’d
never felt so lonely and alone in his life.
Listlessly he went into the living room
and sat down in front of his set of drums
and traps. He beat the drums, in a mount-
ing frenzy, expressing — without knowing
he was expressing them — his feelings of
chaos, of helplessness, of terror in a house
which was not his home, in a world
where he was a stranger and afraid. So he
beat the drums as if they were everyone
who had laughed at him, everyone who
had rejected him, everyone who had con-
fused him.

The shrill br-r-r-r-r-ing of the tele-
phone brought him back to his senses. He
picked up the phone and heard a man’s
voice, a bartender at a local tavern, say-
ing, “We’ve got a lady down here. You
better come get her.” The lady was Doro-
thy Pennebacker Brando, Marlon’s mother.

That was the first time, the first call, the
first of many such calls. And always he’d
hurry down and bring her home. He
wanted to help her, to get through to her
with love and understanding, but there
was no way in which he could do this.

It really didn’t matter when he was
expelled from Libertyville High for smok-
ing in the gymnasium. He didn’t care. No-
body cared.

He was sent off to the Shattuck Military

Academy in Fairbault, Minnesota, in 1942;
hated the pomp and ceremony and disci-
pline, and was expelled in 1943 for putting
some two- inch firecrackers into an old tin
can and exploding them outside the door
of an officer he couldn’t stand.

He returned to Libertyville, but life there
was a real drag. He worked at odd jobs. He
bummed around. Finally, he did nothing.
His sisters were in New York, one study-
ing acting, the other painting. So with no
plans and no prospects, Marlon Brando
hopped a train late in 1943 and headed for
the Big City.

In New York Marlon didn’t have a job
but he had a dream, a dream about his
mother: “I thought if she loved me enough,
trusted me enough, I thought, then we
can be together, in New York, we’ll live
together and I’ll take care of her.”

When the dream came true, it turned
into a nightmare. Almost by chance, Marlon
had fumbled and stumbled and mumbled
into an acting career. At first he was wild
and almost incoherent on stage, but his
teachers — and later on producers and
directors — saw something else, too: raw
animal talent. It didn’t matter that he
shuffled and mumbled (in time they could
teach him how to walk and talk) ; what
did matter is that he projected a hypnotic
magnetism. Audiences fixed their eyes
on him and did not want to let him out of
sight.

But the cheers and applause didn’t make
him happy. Always he wanted something
more precious than applause — a clear,
steady demonstration of his mother’s love,
but he never received it.

Once, Marlon explained years later, his
dream almost came true — the dream about
his mother’s love. “She left my father,”
he said, “and came to live with me. In
New York, when I was in a play. I tried
so hard. But my love wasn’t enough. She
couldn’t care enough. She went back.”
Again he had tried to get through to her
with love and understanding; again he
had failed.

So Marlon built still higher walls around
himself so that he wouldn’t be hurt.
A wall of work: and with “Streetcar”
came fame and fortune. A wall of people:
he surrounded himself with people, lots
and lots of people, to whom he gave sym-
pathy, understanding, money, friendship
— everything, in short, but love. A wall
of brutal honesty: “Marlon is so honest,”
said a friend, “that if he thinks you’re a
jerk, he’ll tell you so. But he doesn’t go
out of his way to do it. He has a sense of
decency, too.” A wall of eccentricity:
most of all he tried desperately to be
himself, although he wasn’t sure what
being himself really was. “I can walk
into a room where there are a hundred
people,” he once said, “and if there is
one person in that room who doesn’t
like me, I know it and have to get out.”

One day he tested to see if the walls
were really strong enough. The test, of
course, was with his mother.

“She was there,” Marlon recalls. “In a
room. Holding on to me. And I let her
fall. Because I couldn’t take it any more
— watch her break apart in front of me,
like a piece of porcelain. I stepped right
over her. I walked right out. I was in-
different. Since then, I’ve been indifferent.”

He turned his back on the famous and
the would-be-famous young women in
Hollywood and dated, when he dated at
all, car-hops and salesgirls and waitresses.
In Marlon’s early days in Hollywood,
one of his friends cracked, “Marlon has
been known to go out with women but
he feels much safer with animals.”

Then he met Movita Castenada, a beau-
tiful Mexican actress, while he was
filming “Viva Zapata.” Movita was a few

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years older than he was. But most im-
portant, she had the European attitude to-
wards men — a man, the man, should be the
central thing in a woman’s life, should be
waited upon, adored and loved. They went
together two or three years, but it didn’t
work out. One of Marlon’s friends ex-
plained it this way: “Movita offered Mar-
lon all her love and he was afraid to
accept it. He didn’t believe anyone could
really be in love with him.”

When the romance ended in 1954, Marlon
was completely broken up and walked off
the set of “The Egyptian” in despair. In
the past, when things had gone wrong
for him, he’d hopped a plane to Illinois,
to his mother. This time there was no
mother to go home to. Dorothy Penne-
backer Brando was dead.

Marlon had let down his defensive
walls a bit to Movita; now he let them
down a little more to another woman,
Josanne Berenger-Mariani. Shortly after
his breakup with Movita and his mother’s
death, he opened the door of his psychi-
atrist’s New York apartment, and instead
of finding the doctor there, he ran smack
into a frail, child-like, elfin, completely
feminine girl with large dark eyes, a
warm mouth, and close-cut French bangs.
He soon found out that she was the gov-
erness for the doctor’s children, and that
she was a native of the fishing village of
Bandol, France. A little later, he thought
he’d found out something else: he was
in love. On October 29, 1954, he responded
directly to a reporter’s question about his
feelings for Josie: “Yes, I’m going to
marry her.”

But he didn’t marry her. Shortly after-
wards, for the second time in a few years,
he again turned his back on love. He
never said publicly why he changed his
mind, but all his friends agreed on the
reason. When he first met her, Josie
was a simple, unspoiled girl, they said.
But just being with Marlon made her
a celebrity, and she began to talk and
act like one. Brando felt he was being
used and he backed away.

Nevertheless, Marlon Brando was grow-
ing up. He’d let down his defenses twice
and had been badly hurt. But he didn’t
retreat into a shell, didn’t erect the high
walls around himself again. “You’ve got
to have love,” he said. “There’s no other
reason for living . . . I’m ready. I want
it. . . . Because, well what else is there?
That is all it’s really about. To love
somebody.”

That “somebody” came along in the per-
son of Anna Kashfi. He met the olive-
skinned, brown-eyed, small Indian girl on
the Paramount lot and was immediately
captivated by her exotic beauty. When
Anna developed tuberculosis and was sent
to the City of Hope Hospital, just out-
side Hollywood, Marlon sent her flowers
daily, phoned her every morning, and
visited her when each day’s shooting was
over. When she left the hospital after
five and a half weary months, they were
constantly together.

Nevertheless, the world was surprised
when, on October 11, 1957, Anna Kashfi
and Marlon Brando were married at the
home of Marlon’s aunt. Throughout the
ceremony the bridegroom cupped a single
pearl in his hand, an old East Indian cus-
tom assuring a long and happy marriage.

Less than a year later, just eleven days
short of their first wedding anniver-
sary, Anna announced that she was
suing Marlon for divorce, charging neglect
and indifference on her husband’s part.
On April 23, 1959, the divorce was granted.
But it was not until the end of 1959, in
Superior Court at Santa Monica, that some
of the details of their unhappy marriage
were finallv made public. In a bitter court

battle over visiting rights to their baby
boy, Marlon accused Ai oa of trying to run
him over with her car and of attempting
to attack him with a butcher knife, and
Anna charged Marlon beat her and
knocked her down while she held the baby
in her arms.

Brando claimed, specifically, that one
day in May, 1959, when he was visiting his
young son at his former wife’s home, “She
became infuriated. She said you don’t de-
serve to hold the baby. She snatched him
from my arms. I grabbed her and she
slipped and she sat down with the baby in
her arms.

“She went to the bedroom to call police.
I told her not to. She persisted. I slapped
her twice — once on the face and once on
the shoulder and started to spank her. The
child began to cry, so I stopped. I started
to leave the house via the kitchen. She
grabbed a butcher knife and started to
come at me.

“I pushed her away. She raised the knife.
I told her to go ahead if it would make her
happy. She threw the knife on the floor
and came at me again, grabbing my hair.
I freed myself and I left.”

Anna countered that on the day in ques-
tion— and she remembered the date, May
7 — Marlon threw her on the floor while she
was holding the child. Later, she claimed,
he pursued her into the bedroom and
struck her many times “on the face, arms
and other parts of the body.”

Again a dream of love had become a
nightmare; again he’d turned his back on
love. Why? What happened? If you accept
Anna’s version, you’ll get a picture of a
marriage in which her husband was seldom
home, in which her husband was moody
and uncommunicative, in which her hus-
band was surly and unsympathetic and
cold.

If you accept the version of Marlon’s
close cronies, you’ll get a totally different
picture — a picture of a marriage in which
the husband was suddenly told that his
wife was not who she said she was. Sud-
denly he could no longer believe in the
girl who had stood by his side in the tra-
ditional Indian green and gold wedding
sari and had exchanged marriage vows
with him.

But there’s a third version as to what
happened, and those who accept it take
as their symbol the large oil painting
of Marlon’s mother that hangs above the
fireplace in his aunt’s house, just above
the mantelpiece on which stands the Oscar
he won for “On the Waterfront” in 1955.
That corner, they claim, is a kind of
shrine — a shrine to the memory of the
mother Marlon loved so dearly, but who
was incapable of showing him love in
return. Marlon, they assert, is haunted
by that memory. He wants to give love,
he tries to give love, but when his love
is returned, he can’t accept it. He doesn’t
believe it’s true. So he must hurt any-
one who loves him, hurt by turning his
back and by building up walls to shut her
out: walls of work, people, brutal hon-
esty, eccentricity, and super-sensitivity.
Through those who love him, they say,
Marlon Brando strikes back at the one
person he loved but who could not and
would not love him — his mother.

Almost everyone who knows Marlon
Brando agrees on one thing: his love for
his son, Christian Devi Brando, is deep and
true and genuine. When he is with his
son, all Marlon’s defensive walls come
tumbling down. He gives love; he receives
love; it’s as simple and spontaneous as
that. And perhaps, through his son, Marlon
will learn not to turn his back on other
loves. The End

SEE MARLON IN “THE FUGITIVE KIND” FOR
U.A. AND IN “ONE-EYED JACKS” FOR PAR.

FRANKIE AVALON

Continued from page 60

could be. Then he heard a voice introduc-

iing him to the girl, and he walked toward
her, his hand extended, a shy smile on
his lips. The girl stared back at him,
but her face was almost blank, as if she
were looking off into a room that did not
include his presence. She did not smile.
Not by a flicker of her eyes, did she
acknowledge that he stood there before
her.

He stopped short. And he knew, sud-
denly. that though her eyes were fixed
on him, they didn’t see him. They didn’t
see anything at all. She didn’t see Bob
Marcucci, his manager and best friend,
standing by the window. She didn’t even
see Bob’s aunt, Jane Zappala, who was
her mother by adoption. What she saw in
that distant place she stared at, he didn’t
know. But something was wrong, terribly
wrong. . . . He knew this in the painful
moment he stood there.

Is she blind? he asked himself, but then
immediately, intuitively, he knew this
wasn’t what was wrong. Dixie Lee could
see — but she didn’t see. It was as if some
} giant, shielding screen — invisible to every-
one but her — shut her off from the world
of reality. It was almost as if she lived
in a world all her own, where no one
could enter, no one could help her — nor
could they hurt her.

There was pain in her eyes, and he
knew now why Bob had not brought him
to meet his cousin Dixie long ago, when
he’d first seen her photograph. He looked
then at Jane Zappala. There was suffering
and pain in her eyes, too. But she forced
a smile for him.

“Wouldn’t you like to come into the
kitchen for some coffee?” she asked. “I’m
sure it must have been a tiring trip.”

THEY were seated around the kitchen
table with coffee and a Danish ring
before them. He stirred his coffee
around and around. He couldn’t meet
their eyes. Then, still looking down at
his cup, he said, “She’s so beautiful and
so . . .”

He felt a gentle hand on his arm and
saw that Mrs. Zappala was leaning across
the table toward him. “Would you like
to hear about Dixie?” she asked softly.
He nodded, unable to speak.

“She’s cut off from everyone, of course.
You saw- that yourself,” Mrs. Zappala
said. “She’s fourteen now. We adopted
her when she was only eight.”

He didn’t know how to ask what he
wanted so much to know. Finally, he just
blurted it out “Was she — was she always
like this?”

“Heavens no!” Mrs. Zappala said. “Why
when we first saw her at Sonoma State
Hospital, she could barely walk and could
only mumble a few words!”

“But how—”

It was obvious that how Dixie had be-
come cut off from the world still angered
and hurt Mrs. Zappala. She closed her
eyes against the hurtful knowledge and
said through tight, trembling lips, “Dixie’s
mother abandoned her when she was little.
For days, the child was left alone, with
no one to care or talk to her — or love her.
She hadn’t had food or drink during all
those days, either. But I don’t think that
hurt the child as much as lack of love, of
having to live without the sound of a
human voice for that time. I . . She
broke off and stared down at the check-
ered cloth on the table. Then she said,
“When we saw her in the hospital, she
was a frail child, but even then, she had

“They told me she’d been hurt so badly,
when she was too young to know how to
protect herself, that she’d probably never
be a normal child. But that didn’t matter
to me. It still doesn’t. All I cared about
was making her happy, even if she
couldn’t show that happiness. Since we
brought her home, we’ve been able to
teach her a few more words, and she can
do simple household tasks, but she’s still
a baby really. The only way we’ve been
able to get through to her, to make her
react a little, is through music. She loves
music. And, you know, she watches you
and Fabian all the time on television. She
never misses a show. Sometimes I think —
though this may be my imagination — she
almost smiles. She so very rarely smiles.”

Mrs. Zappala paused a few seconds and
then she said, “But, all the same, she’s a
wonderful child, a rewarding child, and
I’ve loved her from the moment I looked
into her eyes.”

Frankie bit his lip. It had been the same
with him. The moment he’d discovered
the photograph of Dixie on Bob’s
dresser, while they were on tour, he’d felt
something stir within him. From the mo-
ment he’d looked into Dixie’s eyes in
that photograph, he’d known he’d never
rest until he came face to face with her.

He’d never forget how miserable he’d
been that night. He’d come home from
the theater earlier than Bob, and he’d
walked wearily into the bare sameness of
the hotel room, flicking on the light switch
as he entered.

Just on the off-chance that Bob had
come back, without his knowing it, he
walked over to the connecting door and
knocked. “Bob,” he called, “Bob, are you
there?” There was no answer. He’d really
known there wouldn’t be.

But he opened the door anyway. Some-
how the open door made him feel less
alone. Then he flopped down on the bed
and closed his eyes, even though he knew
he couldn’t sleep. The applause of the
crowd was still ringing in his ears. He was
still filled with the excitement of the per-
formance.

This was a murderous tour: slow, end-
less bus-rides; swift plane flights; long,
jolting train trips. A show here, a show
there; a performance in one city one
night, an engagement in a town five-
hundred miles away the next — until all
the faces in all the audiences fused to-
gether into one indistinct blur.

Then, conscious of another feeling that
was more overwhelming than his tired-
ness, he opened his eyes and looked
around the empty room. He was lonely.
Horribly lonely. And once he had defined
this feeling, given it a name, it became
overwhelming.

He reached over to the chair, at the
side of his bed, and picked up his trumpet.
Pressing the mouthpiece to his lips, he
began to play a slow, melancholy song;
the sound muted with his left hand so
that he wouldn’t disturb anyone else in
the hotel. This was something that often
worked: playing the blues, to blow his
own blues away.

This time it didn’t work. Putting the
trumpet back in its case, he sank back
on the pillow. He didn’t know what to
do. And then his eyes focused on the
telephone next to his bed. I’ll call Mom
and Dad, he thought. I haven’t seen them
in weeks — maybe a month. And it’s over
three months since I’ve been back home
back in Philly.

He picked up the phone and asked for
the long-distance operator. Then he real-
ized that it would be three hours later in
Philadelphia, and that his parents were
probably fast asleep. “I’m sorry,” he told
the operator. “I don’t want to make the
call.”

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He closed his eyes again, but now he
was further away from sleep than
ever. And what would I have told
them — if I had phoned — if it had been
earlier? he asked himself. Could I have
said, “Gee, Mom, I’m lonely. I miss you
all terribly. I’d like to be home.” Naw, I
couldn’t have done that. Could I have
said, “I’m stir-crazy. Nothing but hotel
rooms, planes, trains, buses, and the stages
of theaters for weeks and weeks.” No, I
couldn’t have told them that either. And
I certainly couldn’t have said, “I’ve had
two dates in three months. Just two dates.
One of them was a sad mistake and the
other had to be cut short because I had
to hurry off for an interview just when
we were getting to know each other.”
Gosh, no — I’d sound like a cry-baby if I
blurted out all that.

Even as the word “cry-baby” came into
his mind, Frankie’s eyes started to fill
with tears.

He jumped up quickly, forcing the tears
back, and walked into Bob’s room.

Switching on the light, he paused, then
he went over to the portable ice-box to
get something to eat. Passing a full-
length mirror, attached to a closet door,
he stopped for a moment and gazed at his
reflection. “Man,” he said out loud, “I’m
a mess. Down to one hundred and eighteen
pounds. No wonder they compare me to
Frank Sinatra. Only, if he stood next to
me, he’d look fat!”

The ice-box was filled with frozen steaks
and a bottle of milk. But nothing for a
snack. Nothing like he’d find in the re-
frigerator at home. No prosciutto, no
salami, no provolone cheese, no cold tur-
key, no custard. Definitely no spaghetti
or macaroni, which his mom made so
good, he’d even eat it cold.

He closed the ice-box and slumped down
on a chair next to the table, where Bob
kept his letters and papers. Then he saw
it: clipped to an open envelope was a
snapshot of a girl. The photo was fuzzy.
But the face of the girl who looked out at
him was the most beautiful he’d ever seen.
It was like the faces of madonnas he’d
seen on statues and stained-glass windows
in church: pure, calm, holy. Her face was
framed with dark hair (black, he guessed,
although the snapshot was of such poor
quality, he couldn’t really tell for sure),
hair that was pulled back tight around her
head and fell in long braids down to her
waist. But it was her eyes that held him.
They were beautiful eyes, deep and lumi-
nous.

He hadn’t heard the key turn in the lock
of the door behind him, but suddenly
Bob was standing beside him. And
somehow he felt like a boy who’d been
caught reading his sister’s diary. “I . . .
I came in here to get something to eat . . .
and I just happened to see this,” he said,
pointing at the snapshot.

“That’s Dixie Lee,” Bob said. “My
Aunt Jane’s daughter.” Then Bob changed
the subject — almost too quickly it seemed.
“I’m tired . . . really bushed. Going to
take a shower and crawl into bed.”

“I’m beat, too,” Frankie said. “Good
night.”

The image of the girl in the snapshot
did not fade for him in the weeks that
followed, but somehow he couldn’t bring
himself to ask Bob about her. He wanted
to, he wanted to very much. But he felt
shy and tongue-tied whenever he consid-
ered bringing up the subject. Besides, the
girl was probably going steady, or en-
gaged, or something, he told himself. A
pretty girl like that — check: a beautiful
girl like that — just didn’t sit around wait-
ing for a fellow ... a fellow she didn’t
even know existed.

So he tried to forget her, and succeeded
— most of the time.

Then, just last Friday, Bob brought up
the subject himself. They were in Cali-
fornia and Frankie was making his first
movie, “Guns of the Timberland.” And
late in the afternoon, when the shooting
was finished for the day, Bob said to him,

“I just received a call from Jane — you
remember my talking about my aunt. Jane
Zappala. She’s invited us to her house
for the weekend and she won’t take no
for an answer. There’ll be good Italian
food, and a chance to get away from the
grind for a few days. You need the rest.
What d’ya say?”

Frankie nodded yes, not trusting him-
self to speak. He was already thinking of
her, the girl in the snapshot, Dixie Lee
In the car, all the way to Quincy, he
didn’t say a word, but just stared out of
the window. Usually, he’d slump in the
back seat and snooze. But this day he sat
straight, making sure that he didn’t cross
his legs, making sure his khaki-colored
continentals — snug-fitting, cuffless slacks —
would keep their sharp crease. Before
they’d started, he’d even considered put-
ting a jacket on over his red sports-shirt,
but that would have given it all away. A
jacket in a car on an unseasonably warm
day. Bob would have known something
was up.

The car pulled into the driveway of
Jane Zappala’s house in Quincy, Cali-
fornia. Bob Marcucci turned off the
ignition and climbed out of the car. “Let’s
go, Frankie,” he said. “We’re here.”

Frankie felt almost the same as he had
years and years ago, when he’d first per-
formed in public. He wanted to stay just
where he was, hidden in the corner. But
he forced himself out of the car and across
the lawn to the house. He was conscious
of shaking Bob’s aunt’s hand, of saying
hello to her, of standing in the living
room. And then there she was. Sitting
quietly on the sofa just as he’d known
she’d be. And her hair was black. . . .

So was everything else, after he'd dis-
covered Dixie’s tragedy. Everything was
black, hopeless. But then, as he sat in
the kitchen with Bob and his aunt, Mrs.
Zappala’s words echoed in his mind: When
she hears you sing, she almost smiles. . . .
Those words went on echoing in his mind
the rest of the weekend. Whenever he
looked at Dixie’s quiet, withdrawn face,
he’d think, She almost smiled. And he
did everything he could to strike the al-
most out of that sentence, to actually
make her smile.

He insisted she sit next to him at meals.
He walked with her slowly around the
neighborhood, gently holding her arm as
if she were a tiny child. The kids they
passed knew he was Frankie Avalon, but
they didn’t pester him for autographs. It
was as if the youngsters on the block,
and Jane’s friends and neighbors, were
all waiting for something — something good
and wonderful — to happen.

On Saturday night, Bob and Jane and
some friends went out for a drive, and
Frankie stayed with Dixie. Everything
was quiet, peaceful. In silence, he watched
the way the lamplight played on Dixie's
olive skin, the way it glinted in her brown
eyes, and he felt as strong a sadness as
he’d known the night his father lay on a
hospital bed, his body riddled by steel
fragments from an exploding crucible in
the steel mill, where he was foreman.
Now, just as on that night when his father
lay close to death, he wanted desperately
to help. But once again, he didn't know
what to do.

Then he remembered what Mrs. Zappala
had said about music. Rising quietly, he
went over to the phonograph, and there,
sure enough, were his records, "From
Bobby Sox to Stockings” and “Boy With-

out a Girl.” He put “Boy Without a Girl”
on the turntable, flipped the switch, and
then looked at Dixie.

She had turned and was looking at him,
too, now. And her expression had changed;
the pallor of her face lessened. Her eyes
moved and she swayed ever so slightly
to the music.

He crossed the room and stood in front
of her. “Dance, Dixie,” he whispered,
“let’s dance.” And he pulled her gently
to her feet.

Tenderly, he put one hand around her
back, and held the fingers of her left hand
with the other. Holding her as if she were
a fragile doll, he slowly tapped his foot
in time to the music. At first she was
rigid and tense. Then, when she began
to relax, he moved into the simplest step,
and she moved with him. He sang softly
in her ear, harmonizing with his own voice
on the record. Then slowly, ever so slow-
ly, they started dancing around the room
together.

The record stopped and he turned it off.
But Dixie Lee did not sit down. She stood
there, in the center of the room, waiting
expectantly for him to come back to her.
Immediately he was at her side, then she
was in his arms, and they danced together
again.

No orchestral music. Just a boy dancing
with a girl, a boy singing to a girl. Sing-
ing the songs that had made him famous.
But singing to someone who barely knew
who he was. “Venus,” and “I’ll Wait for
You,” and “Pretty-Eyed Baby.”

The front door clicked and Bob and his
aunt entered the room, but he didn’t hear
them. All he knew was that his shoulder
was suddenly wet, that Dixie Lee was
crying. Stepping back to look at her, to
comfort her, he saw that something else
had happened, too. Dixie Lee was crying,
but she was also smiling. And his own
eyes filled with tears as he took her in

his arms to dance — to keep on dancing.

He had made her smile, but she’d done
something for him too. His own feeling
of loneliness — the feeling that had op-
pressed him for weeks — -faded away as
they circled around the room.

Suddenly, he heard someone cough. He
stopped dancing and stood with his arm
around Dixie’s waist. “Hi,” he said to
Bob and his aunt. “We were just trying
out a new step.”

They didn’t say anything to him. They
just stood there, struck dumb with disbe-
lief. She had come alive. Could there be
hope, after all . . . after all these years . . . ?

Late Sunday night. Bob and Frankie
had to say goodbye. Dixie held tightly
to his hand, when she walked him to the
car, as if she didn’t want to let him go.
They walked in silence. He couldn’t find
the words to tell her he didn’t want to go
back to the lonely grind of the tour. He
didn’t know how to tell her how much this
weekend with her had meant to him. How
happy she had made him.

At the last moment, he leaned down to
her confused and frightened face and
kissed her gently on the cheek. She did
not move. For a moment she just stood
there, staring at him, and then she laughed
out loud — for the first time in her life —
she was happy and laughing.

But she was the only one who laughed.
Bob’s aunt was so choked up with thanks,
she could not even say goodbye and, as
Bob drove away, he could scarcely see
the road ahead, his eyes were so full of
tears. Blinking back his own tears, Frankie
turned to look back. He was so blinded
he almost didn’t see Dixie waving after
him. But he would never forget her —
never. The End

WATCH FOR FRANKIE IN WARNERS’ “GUNS OF THE
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DODIE STEVENS

Continued from page 57

The I’oom was small, and it was a mess —
the beds weren’t even made — but Dodie
made no apologies. She took Cheryl’s books
and slowly placed them in a corner on the
floor with her own. Without a word, she
walked over to the phonograph, put on
her favorite recording of “My Yiddisha
Momma” and motioned to Cheryl to come
sit beside her on the floor. Halfway through
the record, the suspense was too much
for Cheryl. “Okay, Geri — give! What is
bothering you?”

Dodie leaned back against the bed and
stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t really
know how to say it,” she began. “It’s just
that, well, my folks believe in me so much;
they’ve always been so sure I’ll make it.
Ever since I was four years old, they’ve
been scrimping to pay for singing lessons
and acting lessons, and publicity pictures,
and demonstration records — oh, everything.
Now my father’s out of work — nobody’s
building houses, so they don’t need painters
— and we can’t afford it. If only I could do
something to pay them back. Something
wonderful. I want to give my dad some-
thing to show him how I really feel.”

And then her face fell again. “But what
is there? Nothing. It always ends up that
there’s nothing I can do — to make him
proud of me, to make up for all he’s done
for me.”

Cheryl sighed. “I don’t know what to
tell you, Geri. But I think your folks are
proud of you already, just because you’re
you. I don’t think you ought to knock
yourself out like this, when there’s nothing

you can do about it. I mean, if you keep
on feeling hurt and like that, they’re bound
to feel it, too, and that’ll just make things
worse.”

“I suppose so,” Dodie said slowly, “But
I can’t help wishing there were some
way . . .”

Suddenly Cheryl jumped up. “Good
grief, look at the time. If I’m late for supper
one more time, I can’t go to the movies
this week.” At the door, she paused, her
hand on the knob. “It’ll be all right, Geri,”
she said. “You’ll see.”

Dodie nodded, but she didn’t believe it.
She closed the door and went over to the
window. Staring out into the twilight, she
couldn’t help remembering another day, a
month ago, when everyone had said every-
thing would be all right, too. Only it hadn’t
been. It never was — and maybe — maybe it
never would be. That’s what scared her.

She was going to have an audition at
MCA, the biggest theatrical agency
anywhere. Her voice teacher, Mrs.
Bishop, had managed to get it through a
friend of hers, Mr. Miles. Mrs. Bishop was
more than a teacher, even something more
than a friend. She’d proven that by be-
lieving in Dodie so much, she’d given up
all her other pupils to become her man-
ager. And all I do is let her down, she
thought as she lay in bed that Saturday
morning, waiting for her father to call
her. When he did, at eight, she struggled
out from under the covers, thinking This
is it. If they don’t like me — the big ones —
nobody ever will. The sun was already
bright and hot, but she wore her favorite
pink sweater and a matching skirt, be-
cause that was the best outfit she had. She
didn’t have many clothes. As she combed
her hair, she tried to tell herself that

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noying itching relieved, while the skin becomes pliable
and soft as the redness Is reduced. Many doctors use the
non-stalnlng Dermoll formula. Must give definite benefit
or money back. Sold by leading Drug stores.

Write today LAKE LABORATORIES, Dept. 6404

Box 3925. Strathmoor Station, Detroit 27. Mich.

maybe this time would be different. Maybe
this man would like the ballads she sang —
maybe he wouldn’t think she was too
young.

During the ride from Temple City to
Beverly Hills — it took over an hour — her
father kept saying, “Relax, everything will
be just fine. You’ll see.”

But then, he always said that.

Her mother, her sister Elaine and Mrs.
Bishop were in the back seat. “Yes, you’ll
see,” they all said.

But she saw nothing. She just sat there
like a statue, wishing she were older —
even just a year, like Elaine. Then she
wished she were as pretty as Elaine, too.

When they got to MCA, Mr. Miles was
waiting for them. He led them into one of
the big front offices.

As the man behind the desk looked up,
her father said proudly, “This is my daugh-
ter, Geri Pasquale. She has an appoint-
ment.”

The executive smiled. “Of course,” he
said, “the little girl with the big voice I’ve
been hearing about.” Then, after everyone
was seated in the audition room, he turned
to her. “Would you like to sing for me
now?” he asked.

She nodded, trying to push the butter-
flies down, and began to sing — “Yiddisha
Momma.” then “I Believe” — songs she’d
been singing at benefits ever since she was
eight.

The executive listened, but she couldn’t
tell what he was thinking. When she had
finished, he nodded and said, “You’ve got
a nice voice.”

She held her breath. Lots of people had
said that.

“But I’m afraid you’re not ready yet,”
he added Her heart sank. Then he turned
to her father. “In about three years she
might have a fifty-fifty chance of making
it,” he concluded.

Mr. Pasquale led the sad little troupe to
the door. Then he turned and said, very
quietly, “In one year my child will be a
big star.”

“For your sake, I hope so” were the last
words they heard.

Her father put his arm around her
shoulder. “That was only one person,
honey,” he said softly. “There’ll be others,
you’ll see.”

But Dodie knew how important that one
person had been. If the big people didn’t
care about you, didn’t think you’d make it,
you just wouldn’t, that’s all. And it had
nothing to do with age, either. They just
tell you you’re too young so they can get
rid of you, she decided. All I have to do is
turn on the TV, and there’s Annette Funi-
cello. She’s young — and she’s a star.

Then, as she stood there at the window,
staring despondently into space, some-
thing made her lift her eyes and seek
out the first star. She struggled to remem-
ber the words she’d repeated as a child.
“Star light, star bright,” she began, and
they all came back to her. But this time
she did not wish anything for herself.

Then she stood up straight, pulled down
the shade and stretched her arms. “Stupid,”
she scolded herself aloud, “you really are
a child.” Looking around the room, she
realized for the first time w'hat a shambles
it was. She didn’t feel like cleaning up, but
she knew she should, especially since
Elaine had done it yesterday. So she
gathered her books from the floor and
placed them on the chair, put a record on
the machine and began making her bed.
Just as she’d finished, she heard the phone
ring in the hallway. She waited until her
father picked it up.

“Geri?” he called.

P “I don’t want to talk to anyone,” she
called out.

But he was at the door. “It was Mrs.
Bishop,” he said. “She wants us to go over
9b

to her house right away. She says it’s im-
portant; there’s a record she wants you to
hear.”

Reluctantly, she agreed to go, wonder-
ing why she was always giving in.

As they got in the car, her mother and
sister came running out, and before she
knew it, the entire family was heading for
Helen Bishop’s house.

When they got there, Mrs. Bishop was
excited. “I’ve got a song for you to record,
Geri,” she began. “Remember Carl Burns,
the man from Crystallette Records? He
said he’d call when he found the right
record,” she beamed, “and here it is.” She
gave it a loving pat and lowered it onto
the turntable.

They all sat down, listening hard to the
thin voice coming over the phonograph.
And when it was over, she and Elaine both
exploded. “Ugh! It’s terrible,” the> cried.

But Mr. and Mrs. Pasquale smiled. “Hey,
it’s kind of cute,” he said.

“Pink Shoelaces!” Dodie groaned, mak-
ing a horrible face. “What kind of a title is
that?”

“Never mind about the title,” said Mrs.
Bishop. “You just go home and learn the
tune. Mr. Burns wants you in his office
tomorrow. He says ‘Pink Shoelaces’ is the
song for you.”

Dutifully, she took the record home. She

THE

YOU GET
THE MOST IN

PHOTOPLAY

on sale Feb . I

and Elaine listened to it again, trying hard
to hear what their folks and Mrs. Bishop
and Mr. Burns seemed to hear in it. But
they both agreed it was absolutely “downs-
ville.”

It was five minutes past three when she
walked into the house the following after-
noon. Her mother and father, looking
happier than she’d ever seen them look,
were waiting to take her to see Mr. Burns.
Oh, please, she whispered to herself, don’t
let them be disappointed again . . .

When they arrived at Crystallette, Mr.
Burns hurried Dodie into his private office
and said, abruptly, “Okay, sing me the
song.” And while she sang the words, he
kept nodding his head approvingly. When
it was over, he jumped out of his seat and
began pacing up and down, whistling the
tune. Finally, he turned to her and grinned.
“That’s it! That’s the song for you! We’ll
make a few lyric changes and next week
you'll record it,” he told her.

Is it really going to happen? Dodie kept
thinking on the way home. With that song?
But they drove in silence. Nobody seemed
to be able to think of a word to say.

Several days before Christmas, Geri
Pasquale, with the new name of Dodie
Stevens (a name practically picked out of
a telephone book), cut her very first rec-
ord. But even then she wasn’t convinced
anything would come of it.

“Mother and Dad are going ape!” she
told Cheryl on the phone that night. “They
think it’s the best thing they’ve ever heard.
Daddy’s been jumping around the house

shouting ‘My daughter’s going to have a
hit record!’ and Mother’s been humming
the tune so much, I’m sick of it already.
Well, anyway, I’ll never have to listen to
it on the radio, that’s for sure.”

Nevertheless, after the record was re-
leased early in January, Dodie couldn’t
help turning on the radio — just in case.
For days, nothing had happened at all.

Then one peaceful Saturday morning,
the house was suddenly filled with a wild
voice screaming, “It’s on! It’s on!” Mom
cried.

She and Elaine flew out of their room
toward the kitchen. Even while she was
listening, she still couldn’t believe it. But
there it was . . . “Pink Shoelaces” was on
the air . . And she was singing it! She had

the strangest feeling. Her stomach started
doing flip-flops and her heart beat wildly.
It was just too much.

But her happiness didn’t last long. Just
as the record began showing big,
something tragic happened, something
Dodie would never completely get over.
Helen Bishop died. From one day to the
next, this generous, loving, tower of
strength was no more. It was Dodie’s first
experience with death, and it left its mark.
For days, she wandered about with red
eyes, swearing she would never sing an-
other note. She couldn’t bear it — that Mrs.
Bishop should be taken from her just when
she was about to justify all her confidence.
She was in such a fog that when her
mother slipped into her room one night
several weeks later, she didn’t even hear
her until she spoke. “How do you think
Mrs. Bishop would feel if she could see
you now?” she asked gently. They looked
at each other in silence for a long time;
then her mother sighed and left the room.
That night, after the lights were out, she
didn’t cry, for she had finally understood
why she had to go on.

The next morning she received her first
royalty check. The amount was stagger-
ing— and it was all hers! Thousands of
thoughts raced through her mind. “Now I
can repay Mother and Dad for all their
time and effort ... I can repay them for
all the money they spent on my lessons . . .
on repairs for the car . . . I’ll buy a new
one . . . but first I’ll buy them a house!
And Daddy won’t ever have to worry any
more about layoff periods. I’ll make him
my manager officially. Mrs. Bishop would
be so pleased . . .”

That night she tried to do her homework
before dinner, but she couldn't concentrate.
Closing her books with a bang, she walked
over to her favorite spot by the window,
leaned on the sill and dreamed about to-
morrow’s world. She was Geri in Wonder-
land. She imagined herself wearing all
kinds of beautiful clothes, with matching
shoes for every outfit. She loved shoes . . .
She even thought about getting married.
Maybe 20 or 21 is a good age, she decided.
And I’ll have a boy and a girl— the boy
first, I hope, so he can bring friends home
to meet his sister. And even if my career
doesn’t last, I’ll still have so much money,
I can even go to college someday maybe,
and Mom and Dad will be so very proud
of me . . .

When the daydreaming finally wore off
and reality took over, the first thing Dodie
did after she got her movie contract was to
put a down payment on a new house with
a swimming pool. And by the time she
made her first personal-appearance trip
to New York, she’d saved up enough out
of her dollar-a-week allowance to treat
herself to her first pair of high-heeled
shoes. So if anyone wonders whether wish-
ing on a star does any good, ask Dodie —
she knows! The End

SEE DODIE IN HER FIRST MOVIE, “HOUND DOG

man” for 20th. hear her on dot records.

B R

tfrO/TamoM**

V«*«. .

4 ounces 60^

THERE ARE THREE BRECK SHAMPOOS
FOR THREE DIFFERENT HAIR CONDITIONS

One of the best ways to care for your hair is frequent use of
a shampoo made for your individual hair condition. There
are Three Breck Shampoos. One Breck Shampoo is for dry
hair. Another Breck Shampoo is for oily hair. A third Breck
Shampoo is for normal hair. Select the correct Breck Shampoo
to bring out the natural beauty and lustre of your hair.

New packages marked with color help you select the correct Breck Shampoo.
II Red for dry hair ' Yellow for oily hair Blue for normal hair

ENJOY THE BRECK SUNDAY SHOWCASE, A DRAMATIC SERIES ON THE NBC-TV NETWORK.

that breathes new mildness into the smoke . . . new
freshness into the flavor.

Invisible porous openings blend just the right amount
of fresh air with each puff to give you a cooler,
milder smoke... a richer, fresher- tasting smoke. Now,
more than ever. . .when you take a puff, it’s Springtime !

Created by R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company

why Liz
lad to leave the
party so early

CONTEST

win a
welcome home”

iflTE WITH ELVIS

(see page 19 )

MARCH

25*

CAROL LYNLEY:

honest, you can
dress like a
ovie star, too

Jergens beautifies hands as nothing else can !

New tests! New proof! Jergens stops detergent hands! Nancy Sinclair soaked
both hands in detergents several times a day for 3 days. Her left hand, treated
with a leading medicated lotion, became red. rough. Her right hand, with Jergens
care, stayed soft and pretty. Look at the difference in the unretouched photo of
her hands. In 972 tests, women proved Jergens Lotion stops detergent hands.

Jergens is the true
beauty lotion!

M ore than a mere cosmetic,
more than a clinging
medication. Jergens Lotion
protects and beautifies
as nothing else can.

Why Jergens is best

° Quickly smooths, softens
° Absorbs instantly

Leaves no sticky feeling

• Helps replace natural
moisture lost to weather
and harsh detergents

• Costs only 15^ to $1.

No wonder more American families use Listerine
than all other mouthwashes combined !

Iiistexrizie stops bad breath
4 times better than tooth paste !

★ TUNE IN "THE GALE STORM SHOW" ABC-TV NETWORK

YOU KILL GERMS ON
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THE LISTERINE WAY*

Tooth paste reaches Listerine way kills
only teeth, gum- germson tongue, pal-
line And it’s NOT ate, tonsils, all
antiseptic. mouth and throat.

“See directions on label

MARCH, 1960

VOL. 57, NO. 3

STAY-RITE SHIELDS

Wily new way to keep dainty-dry,
save clothesand face! Slip-on styling
stays put with ease. $1.89

FAVORITE OF AMERICA'S MOVIEGOERS FOR OVER FORTY YEARS

PINUPS
TEST YOURSELF
BEAUTY

LIZ TAYLOR and
EDDIE FISHER
JERRY LEWIS
YOUR FAVORITES

DEBBIE REYNOLDS
ROGER SMITH and
VICI SHAW
TUESDAY WELD
FABIAN
DIANE BAKER
YUL BRYNNER
CAROL LYNLEY
JUSTINE and BOB

WELCOME ELVIS HOME CONTEST

20 Win a Day at the Studio with Elvis

SPECIAL: FOR GIRLS ONLY

46 A Leap Year Guide to 8 Types of Bachelors

50 A Leap Year Quiz

51 Nine Hairdos Men Like Best

EXCLUSIVE

22 Why Liz Had to Leave the Party by Mark Adams

36 The Day the Undertaker Called — for Me
59 Photoplay Gold Medal Award Winners

ARTICLES AND SPECIAL FEATURES

24 Don’t Be .he Girl in the Comic Valentine

26 Why Do You Love Me? by Roger Smith

28 Please Stop Those Whispers About Me by William Tusher
30 “I’ve Got to Say Goodbye” by Jim Hoffman
34 If Only I’d Listened to My Mom by Charlotte Barclay

40 Why Do They Label Him Fraud? by Margaret Gardner

42 Fashion: “Honest, You Can Dress Like a Movie Star, Too”
57 Photoplay Plays Cupid

YOUNG IDEAS

Readers Inc.

Your Monthly Ballot

Becoming Attractions

Where to Buy

Your Needlework

Answers to February’s Puzzle

88 Monthly

Record

by George

NEWS AND REVIEWS

Hollywood For You by Skolsky

Go Out to a Movie

Inside Stuff by Sara Hamilton

Casts of Current Pictures

79 Now Playing (Brief Reviews)

COVER PHOTO: Elvis Presley by Globe Photos

EVELYN PAIN, Editor KENNETH CUNNINGHAM, Art Director

NORMAN SIEGEL, West Cousl Editor

CLAIRE SAFRAN, Managing Editor
andree brooks. Associate Editor
tobi feldstein, Assistant Editor
JIM HOFFMAN. Contributing Editor
mvien mazzone, Contributing Editor

KATE PALUMBO, Fashion Editor
ROGER MARSHUTZ. Staff Photogra/iher
JOAN clarke. Assistant Art Director
Marcia borie, West Coast Contributor
anne kanes. Assistant to Eiditor

Your April issue will be on sale at your newsstand on March 3rd.

Photoplay is Published Monthly by Macfadden Publications, Inc., New York, N. Y.

Executive, Advertising and Editorial Offices at 205 East 42nd Street, New York 17, N. Y. Editorial
branch office, 321 South Beverly Drive, Beverly Hills, Calif. Irving S. Manheimer, President; Lee
Andrews, Vice-President; S. N. Himrnelman, Vice-President; Meyer Dworkin, Secretary and Treasurer.
Advertising offices also in Chicago and San Francisco.

Subscription Rates: $2.50 one year, $4.00 two years, $5.50 three years in U. S., its possessions and Canada.
$5.00 per year all other countries.

Foreign editions handled through Macfadden Publications International Corp., 205 East 42nd Street, New York
17 N Y Irving S. Manheimer, President; Douglas Lockhart, Vice-President.

Re-entered as Second Class matter May 10, 1946 at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March
3, 1879. Second-class postage paid at New York, N. Y., and other post offices. Authorized as Second Class
Mail P O Dept., Ottawa, Ont., Canada. Copyright 1960 by Macfadden Publications, Inc, All rights reserved.
Copyright under the Universal Copyright Convention and International Copyright Convention. Copyright reserved
under Pan American Copyright Convention. Todos derechos reservados segun la Convencion Panamericana de
Propiedad Literaria y Artistica. Title trademark registered in U. S. Patent Office. Printed in U. S. A. by Art Color
Printing Company. Member of True Story Women’s Group.

THEY WANTED - SO MUCH -TO LOVE EACH OTHER

BUT BETWEEN THEM, LIKE A WALL, WAS A FATHER’S
SHAMELESS PAST AND A MOTHER’S POSSESSIVE LOVE

METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER presents

A SOL C SIEGEL PRODUCTION

HOME

FROM

THE HILL

AND A BOY, WHOSE STRANGE SECRET
THE WHOLE TOWN KNEW... TOO WELL!

Starring

FROM
WILLIAM
HUMPHREY'S
RICH AND
EARTHY
NOVEL

rorert mitchum- eleanor parker

Co-Starring

GEORGE PEPPARD-GEORGE HAMILTON'EVERETT SLOANE -LUANA PATTEN

screen nay by HARRIET FRANK, Jr. and IRVING RAVETCH * In CinemaScope And METR0C0L0R

Directed by VINCENTE MINNELLI • Produced by EDMUND GRAINGER

Here’s Joan Blondell and Dick Powell with — give up? — me!

THAT’S
HOLLYWOOD
FOR YOU

BY SIDNEY SKOLSKY

I remember, I remember . . . Har-
riet and Ozzie Nelson taking their
youngsters, David and Ricky, for
a big night out: dinner at the Brown
Derby. Perhaps this is where Ricky
acquired his taste for coffee, which,
some ten years later, led him to the
coffee houses of the Sunset Strip. . . .
And I remember some few years be-
fore the Nelsons, in the same Vine
Street Derby on a Saturday after-

noon, Charlie Chaplin lunching with
his youngsters, Charlie Jr. and Sid-
ney. The boys wore their Black Foxe
Military Academy uniforms. Soon
Chaplin walked across the length of
the restaurant to Joe E. Brown’s booth
and asked for his autograph. Charlie’s
sons wanted it because, as they told
the great comedian, “Joe E. Brown is
the funniest man in the world.”

I remember, I remember this well,

because Chaplin stopped to tell it to
me. I look back — and not in anger —
at Hollywood of some twenty-odd
years ago and this is my strongest
recollection: Being told repeatedly
that Hollywood isn’t what it used to
be; that I should have been around
in the good old days. Now I hear peo-
ple speak about these same abused
years as the good old days. Time puts
a halo on a lot of things, doesn’t it?

For me, remembering is a pleasure.
So I summon up remembrance of
things past, so you’ll know more
about the actors you see on the Late,
Late Show. It’s a way for you to catch
up on the past.

There was the time Cary Grant was
making “Bringing Up Baby” and
kidded Katharine Hepburn because
she preferred a man wearing sneak-
ers to him. Today Cary and that man
in sneakers, Howard Hughes, are best
friends and he never sees K. Hepburn.
. . . Gary Cooper was a shy youngster
on the way up in pictures and Mary
Pickford was about to retire unde-
feated as “America’s Sweetheart.” In
those years, it was unthinkable for a
notable to enter and leave Hollywood
without attending a dinner party at
Pickfair. Only yesterday, Nikita
Khrushchev visited Hollywood and
was honored with a chicken-and-green
peas luncheon at the Twentieth Cen-
tury-Fox commissary. Hollywood’s
greatest hostess, Mary Pickford,
wasn’t even on the guest list. . . . How-
ever, Gary Cooper was present. The
Montana cowboy has come a long
way, and stayed a long time. The so-
cial bit started when the Countess Di
Frasso took Cooper under her wing
(Continued )

/ remember Desi and Lucy before TV.

Ozzie and Harriet started something by taking Rick and David to the Derby.

e bramble bush'..

WAS WRITTEN IN TH tl BLISTER-HEAT OF
FEELINGS AND EXCITATIONS ... IT COULD
COMETO THE SCREEN IN NO OTHER WAV!

From 'the
best- set ter
that makes
Peyton Place
read tike a
book of

nursery rhymes!'

Walter Winchell

'They who hunger for the forbidden

FRAN r

I’m not a motel
tramp. I don’t want
you to think I am !”

MARGRETjrtYl

made Guy fwger
she was his
best friend’s wife.

Richard Burton • Barbara Rush

jgl I CO-STARRING

Jack tarSOII -Angie Dickinson -James Dunn

(The“ sensational' Feathers' of ‘Rio Bravo'!)

a WARNER BROS. picture TECHNICOLOR®

ALSO STARRING

HENRY JON ES-Screenplay by MILTON SPERLING and PHILIP YORDAN- From the novel by CHARLES MERGENDAHL EJjfS
Music Composed and Conducted by LEONARD ROSENMAN • Produced by MILTON SPERLING • Directed by DANIEL PFTRIF IMI

WARNER BROS. First in Motion Pictures, Television, Music and Records

Dale Robertson, TV star of
Tales of Wells Fargo says . . .

• ALL THE

IN IVORY’S s100,000 WEILS FARGO GIVE-AWAY !

***********************,

amount of money on the stagecoach.
Closest estimate wins all the cash
plus $10,000 Bonus

Use this entry blank to enter the Give-Away today

IVORY’S S100.000 WELLS FARGO GIVE-AWAY ENTRY BLANK

PLEASE PRINT CAREFULLY

My estimate of the amount of cash on the stagecoach is:

ADDRESS-
CITY

DEALER’S NAME.

I am enclosing 3 wrappers from any size of Ivory Soap.

| | $10,000 Bonus Prize. Check (V) here if your 3 Ivory Soap
wrappers include one from each size — Large, Medium, and Personal
— to be eligible for $10,000 Bonus Prize.

Mail to: Ivory Give-Away, Dept. SA, P.O. Box 14, Cincinnati 99,
Ohio. Entries must be postmarked no later than midnight, May 1,
1960, and received no later than midnight, May 15, 1960.

The fastest gun in the West never had it so easy . . .
a chance to carry off a whole Wells Fargo shipment
by simply estimating how much cash Dale Robertson
is helping Ivory Soap give away! A heap of other
prizes too, like “Thunderbirds” and mink, $100,000
worth, all told. You’ll need 3 Give-Away wrappers
from any size of Ivory with each entry ... so round
up enough of America’s favorite skin soap for every-
one in the family to enter today!

IVORY

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TALES OF

WELLS FARGO

l GIVE-AWAY! a

9 entry instructions g

1. Estimate the total amount of money in the pic-
ture. Write your estimate on an official entry blank
or a plain sheet of paper. Print your name and address
plainly. The estimate closest to the actual amount
of money shown on the stagecoach will win first
prize — all the cash! The next closest will win second
prize, etc. The prizes are as follows:

FIRST PRIZE—

all the cash on the stagecoach.

SECOND AND THIRD PRIZES—

Ford “Thunderbird” automobile.

NEXT PRIZES IN ORDER ARE:

4 RCA Victor Hi Fidelity Consoles

10 Mink Stoles

13 RCA Victor Color TV Sets

15 RCA Victor Hi Fidelity Phonographs

55 Wrist Watches

Each bag shown in the picture contains 1,000 U. S.
silver dollars. Each money chest is packed with the
same equal assortment of all U. S. silver coins in
current circulation. There are twice as many coins
in the money chests as there are silver dollars on
the roof of the stagecoach.

2. Mail your completed entry, with one estimate
only, together with 3 wrappers from any size of Ivory
Soap to: Ivory Give-Away, P. O. Box 14, Cincinnati
99, Ohio. Enter as often as you wish but each entry
must comply with all the rules and be mailed in a
separate envelope. Entries must be postmarked not
later than midnight, May 1, 1960 and received no
later than midnight, May 15, 1960. Entries are
limited to residents of the Continental United States
(including Alaska) and Hawaii, but excluding em-
ployees of Procter & Gamble, its advertising agencies
and their families. This contest is subject to gov-
ernment regulations.

HOLLYWOOD

and introduced him to the top hat.
white tie and tails set.

Then, John Barrymore and Elaine
Barrie were the John Drew Barrymore
and Cara Williams of the era. otdy
even more so. John and Elaine had a
hectic cross-country romance, head-
lined hour by hour. It was one of
those off-again, on-again, off-again
marriages — only more so. He was
quite a man, this Barrymore! He
wouldn’t work in a picture without a
blackboard on the set. He would read
his lines from the blackboard, care-
fully placed out of camera range. The
studios objected, hut they were fool-
ish. Barrymore was years ahead of
his time. His method, improved tech-
nically, is today’s teleprompter, used
extensively in television. Barrymore
told me: “I can remember my lines,
hut I don’t think they’re worth re-
membering.” I never doubted the
Great Profile. . . . Another front-page
romance of this period — the Terrific
Thirties — was (Are you ready? ) Dick
Powell and Joan Blondell. I remem-
ber it well. I interviewed Dick and
Joan when they returned from their
honeymoon. And what a public hon-
eymoon it was! Dick and Joan rode
up Broadway in an open car and New
York gave them a ticker tape recep-
tion, as if they had accomplished a
historic feat by marrying, something
like Lindbergh flying across the At-
lantic. It was something that could
happen only ( Continued on page 69)

continued

Coop learned a lot from Mary.

3. SPECIAL $10,000 BONUS

If your three Ivory Soap wrappers in-
clude one wrapper from each size of Ivory
— Large, Medium and Personal Size — you will re-
ceive a $10,000 bonus if you are the First Prize
Winner.

4. In case of ties, which are quite possible, tying
contestants will be required to complete a statement
about Ivory Soap. The most apt of the tie-breaking
statements will be selected and rated for prizes.
Except for incidental help from family and friends,
entries must be wholly the work of the person in
whose name the entry is submitted, and will be dis-
qualified for outside, professional or compensated
help. The purpose of this rule is to disqualify entries
prepared in whole or in part by professional or com-
pensated contest writers, schools, or services. Duplir
cate prizes will be awarded in case of ties in state-
ments judged. Only one prize will be awarded to
any person or household.

5. Judges’ decisions will be final. No entries will be
returned. Entries, contents and ideas therein belong
unqualifiedly to Procter and Gamble for any and all
purposes. The winners or tying entrants will be
notified by mail about 8 weeks after close of contest.
A list of winners will be available upon request ap-
proximately 3 months after close of contest.

)Procter & Gamble

Remember Jane as Mrs. Reagan?

In “ the good old days” Bob Taylor and Barbara Stanwyck even dressed alike.

DEAR MISS PAIN:

Boys sure are a puzzle. Sometimes when
you go out, they’re real romantic. And
then, other times, specially when you’re
double-dating with another couple, they
don't even bother to hold your hand — or
kiss you goodnight at your door. They
act in such a hurry to get away that you
feel they don’t like you anymore and
that you’ll never see them again. But the
next day, there they are, waiting outside
school to walk you home. How can a girl
know where she stands with a boy when
he acts like that?

Lorna

Springfield, Ohio

Dear Lorna:

We asked Tab Hunter where you stand
and he said: “Sometimes we feel sort of
embarrassed by displays of affection . . .
particularly in front of other people . . . and
it may look as though we don’t care. But
we do, or we wouldn’t have asked you out.”
(And come to think of it, Lorna, haven't
you ever felt a little shy?) So take a tip
from Tab — don't reach for a hoy’s hand or
try to force him to put his arm around
you. Leave that up to him. And if he
occasionally skips that goodnight kiss, that
makes it mean so much more when he does
kiss you. It means it’s not just a habit.

DEAR EDITOR:

We have the squarest bunch of hoys in
my town . . . they don't talk! Last Fri-
day, I had my third date with this fellow
and we went to the movies, and he didn’t
say a word, not one word, as usual. It
was a double-feature and we just sat for

three-and-a-half hours. He didn’t even
ask me what kind of candy I wanted, just
bought a twenty-cent box and held it in
front of my face (so I couldn’t see the
screen) during the movie. Afterward, we
went out for a soda and again I had to
do all the talking — and all the way home,
too. Wouldn’t you think that after two
movies he’d have something to say to me?
What can I do?

Sue

Providence, R. I.

Dear Sue:

Conversation’s not supposed to be a
marathon and there are no prizes for cham-
pions. So stop trying to be one and start
conserving your man and your lung power —
before they’re both exhausted. Next Friday,
keep asking your date about himself and
the things he’s interested in, and don’t
breathe a word until lie answers. And when
he does, look interested. You’ll be amazed
at how talkative he can be . . . and how
much more fascinating he'll think you are.

DEAR EVELYN:

Summer, winter, I have the same problem.
My face peels — on the forehead, nose and
chin. I can understand the sun burning
my skin in the summer when I spend a
lot of time at the beach, but why should
it happen in the winter?

Elly

Dover, N. J.

Dear Elly:

The reasons are the same, only the sea-
son’s different. Just as the summer sun dries
out the oils in your skin, winter’s strong,
cold winds and steam-heated rooms will do
the same. To correct this, try using a
cleansing cream instead of water to clean
your face, and “winterize” your skin by
applying a light layer of greaseless cream
under your makeup before going out on
blustery days and again at night. Hands,
arms and legs may need the same help.
(Why not treat yourself to a pair of those
gay gloves you can wear at night to protect
the linen from your hand cream and make
sleeping fun.) Many people also believe
that to have healthy skin — that’s the same
as pretty skin — you need an adequate diet
of protein, vitamin A and D. If your
“chapping” problem is serious, get a book
on nutrition from the library or talk to
your doctor.

DEAR MISS PAIN:

You know, boys are always saying that
girls are such gossips, but honestly I don’t
think that’s true. In fact, I just bet that
boys spend more time talking about girls
and how they act on dates and what they
say than we ever do. But, why do they
have to go behind our backs and talk
about us?

Claire

Toronto, Canada

Dear Claire:

You don’t have to be a mind-reader to
know that boys exaggerate to make a big-
ger impression on their crowd. So take
warning: since you know they’re going to
try to puff up what happens on a date, be
extra careful that nothing does happen that
you wouldn’t want repeated.

DEAR EDITOR:

I’m only sixteen hut I’ve noticed the same
thing about the boys I’ve gone out with
during the past two years — that’s as long
as I’ve been dating. They’re awfully nice
on the first few dates . . . they kind of
flatter you and make you feel you’re
something extra-special. But when you
begin seeing them regularly, they act as
though they’re doing you a favor to take
you out. Why do they change?

Pat

San Francisco

Dear Pat:

A boy doesn’t take you for granted until
lie's sure of you . . . which is one reason
why some girls stop going steady. As long
as you’re dating several boys, you’re safe.
You’re not dependent upon any one of
them, so they all have to keep trying to
impress you in order to stay in the running
with all your other dates. By the way,
did you know that married couples often
discover that this is one of the big danger
spots for them, too? Once they begin tak-
ing each other for granted, they forget to
keep trying to be attractive, intellectually
interesting, and fun to be with. These are
the things that keep love alive.

P.S. Look for your letters here every month.
We're sorry we can't answer them personally.

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continued

i1 in mini limn

confidentially . . .

E „ iiiiiiiii „„ in mu iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiiiiiii

... I am a boy of thirteen and would like
to have an American pen pal living in Cali-
fornia. I dig Elvis and Sandra Dee the most.

Khoo Meng Kam
32, Wall St.
Kuantan, Pahang
Malaya

... I am an Australian girl of sixteen
and 1 would like a boy penfriend from
America. I like all sports and modern danc-

Susan Johnson
49 Ipswich St.
Toowoomba
Old

Australia

. . . My name is
Riyadh Hanna, nine-
teen, 5'4 1/2" tall with
blue eyes and black
hair. I would like to
have pen pals from
anywhere. My hob-
bies are films, swim-
ming and Kim Novak.

Riyadh Hanna De.
Baz.

Training Department
I. P. C. Ltd.,

Kirkuk, Iraq

... I simply "dig” Elvis and Fabian and
was wondering if anyone would like to trade
pictures of them for pictures of Rick Nelson
and Pat Boone?

Linda Wright

45-524- A Pahia Rd.

Kaneoke, Oahu, Hawaii

. . . How about dropping a few lines to
a Siamese girl. I’m seventeen and was born
in the land of "The King and I.”

Ruenruey Katerainark
1039 Pleonchitt Rd.
Bangkok Thailand
Siam

. . . My name is Anna and 1 am seventeen
years old. Is there a boy or girl who would
like to be my correspondent? It will make
me very happy.

Anna Asgeirsdottir
Hofsvallagotu 22,
Reykjavik, Iceland

... I have a large scrapbook of Shirley
Temple pictures and would like to sell it to
anyone interested.

Betty Ann Surrott
20 Butler Ave.
Greenville, S.C.

. . . Would like to purchase Marilyn Mon-
roe newspaper and magazine clippings. Par-
ticularly reviews of her past films.

Larry Chappuies
6636 Swope Pkwy.
Kansas City, Mo.

... I am a seven-
teen-year-old Japanese
girl. My hobbies are
sports and drawing.
I wish to learn Eng-
lish and some of your
country’s ways of liv-
ing.

Michie Taniguti
30 Mikaji-cho
Nishinari-Ku
Osaka, Japan

. . . My hobby is collecting picture post-
cards. Would like readers all over the world
to send and exchange postcards w ith me.

Peggy Cast
2722 Lindsay Ave.
Louisville 6, Ky.

. . . I’m nineteen years old and a real bug
on stamp collecting and would like to ex-
change stamps with someone from a foreign
country.

Gary Schilinski
14990 Brookfield
Livonia, Mich.

... If you're interested in supporting a
very versatile and talented personality such
as Jayne Meadows, please write me for in-
formation on joining her fan club.

Melodie Aschy
1044 Byron St.
Chicago, 111.

. . . We’d like to invite all admirers of
Jean Pierre Aumont, in the United States
and Canada, to discover what fun fan-
clubbing can be. All potential “Aumonteers”
write to me:

Cay McGowan

7502 Ridge Blvd.

Brooklyn 9, N.Y.

. . . Does anybody
want to be my pen
pal? I’m seventeen
and I'm interested in
nearly everything.
Barbo Jansson
Vasterlanggatan 10 A
Vansbro, Sweden

. . . Like to join the Kingston Trio fan
club? You'll receive a membership card,
journals, snapshots and info that cannot be
obtained elsewhere. All this for -S 1 .50.

Eva Bessie
1210 Stanyan St.

San Francisco, Calif.

Need members for a fan club? Want a pen pal?
Like to exchange fads? Write: Confidentially,
Photoplay, 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N. Y.

. 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 II I II I III I M 1 1 1 1 1 1 111 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 III 1 1 1 II 1 1 1 1 II 1 11 1 1 1 1 II I It 1 1 1 II 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 III 1 1 1 1 1 1 II I II I III II 1 1 II 1 1 1 II 1 1 1 1| 1 1 1 1 II 1 1 1 III I II II 1 1 It 1 1 II 1 1 1 1 1 1 III 1 1 1 1 1 II 1 1 1 M 1 1 II I III 1 1 1 1 II 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 II I II II 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 M t II 1 1 1 1 1 1

“Win a Phone Call” Contest

My girlfriends and I entered your “Win
A Five Minute Phone Call” contest. I guess
we didn’t win since we didn’t receive a call
from a star on Christmas day, hut who did
win?

Joan Fields
New York, N.Y.

Glad you asked — we were just about to an-
nounce it anyway! The winners: Martha
Eudes, of Marietta, Ga., was the lucky girl
to receive a call from Fabian; Janice An-
dersen, of Sierra Madra, Calif., received one
from Edd Byrnes; Elaine Potts, from
Springfield, III., received a call from Rock
Hudson; and the lucky winner of Elvis' call
—Mary Ann Allen, from Pittsburgh, Pa. —
was thoughtful enough to give her prize
away as a gift to her friend, Mary Ann Cole,
also from Pittsburgh, Pa. That’s what ive
call a real friend! So many of our readers
entered this contest that the Board of Judges
really had a hard time choosing the win-
tiers. So congratulations to all you lucky
gals from all of its at Photoplay.— Ed.

Hair Styles

I wish you would run some pages on
hair styles. I know lots of women admire
some of the stars’ hairdos and would like to
copy them.

Mrs. Hiccins
Candler, N.C.

Good idea. Turn to page 51. — Ed.

Songs Famous People Might Sing

“I’m Gonna Get Married” by Liz Taylor
“I Cried a Tear” by Debbie Reynolds
“Why Don’t They Understand” by Eddie
Fisher

“God Bless America” by Khrushchev
“I Go Ape” by King Kong
"Beer Barrel Polka” by Dean Martin
“We Got Love” by Frankenstein and Vam-
pira

“Teenager in Love” by Boris Karloff
“Skinny Minny” by Fats Domino
“I’m a Man” by Jayne Mansfield
“Teachers Pet” by The Creature From the
Black Lagoon

“Kookie, Kookie, Lend Me your Comb” by
Brigitte Bardot

Sandra K. & Mervin G.
Lancaster, Pa.

Future Motion Picture

I have just finished reading the great
novel “Dragonwyck" by Anya Seton. This
novel, I feel, has great potential as a
future motion picture. Either Rock Hudson
or Richard Burton would do justice to the
part of Nicholas Van Ryn. Since Marilyn
Monroe has expressed the desire to play
a dramatic role, I feel that she would be
perfect as Miranda Wells. What a per-
fectly marvelous motion picture this would
be.

Stephanie Rodgers
Roanoke, Ala.

20th Century-Fox thought it would make a
good picture too. So, in 1.946, “Dragonwyck”
was released starring Gene Tierney and
Vincent Price. — Ed.

Write to Readers Inc., Photoplay, 205 E. 42nd
St., New York 17, N. Y. We regret we cannot
answer or return unpublished letters. To start
fun clubs or write stars, contact their studios.

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BESTFORM

With producer Jerry Wald , / get the answers to your questions on Stephen Boyd.

CAn The Sets: All done up in Old
'^Testament glory for his role of Mahl-
on in “The Story of Ruth,” Tom Tryon
greeted me with a wide grin and a warm
hug. “Betty is visiting the set, too,” he
said. Betty being, of course, that cute
redhead Betty Lynn, who co-stars with
Tom in the “Texas John Slaughter”
series. 1 watched a dramatic scene be-
tween Tom and the delicately lovely
Elana Eden of Israel and I agreed with
Twentieth that these two young people
are good. Very good. In fact, when
Stephen Boyd turned down the star-
ring role of “Boaz” in the picture, the
studio offered it to Tom, who politely
turned it down, too. “Thank you,” said
Tom, “but the role calls for too much
riding and I just got off a horse for my TV series. I’ll keep
my feet on the ground as Mahlon if you don’t mind.” The
studio didn’t mind at all. Not when talented Stuart Whit-
man took over the role. And by the way, that romance be-
tween Tom and Betty Lynn looks very serious to me. So
don’t be surprised if something comes of it. Something like
wedding bells. . . . From my mailbox, I’d say Stephen Boyd
is becoming the next big interest with femme fans. And I
can tell them right now — “No, Stephen is not married.” And
to all you wonderful readers who recently showered me with
cards and notes, a big warm thank you.

The Bob Stacks are smiling — with reason

Roundup : Elvis Presley has a surprise for Hollywood
producers who plan to shove him into one routine musical
after another. El has been gathering applause acting in the
Army post shows in Germany, playing straight roles and
doing them well. “And that’s the kind of acting I expect to
do in Hollywood,” he told a pal. “After my first picture for
Hal Wallis, it’s the non-musicals for me.” Frank Sinatra
and Bing Crosby do great in movies without having to
sing, so why not Elvis? . . . Little Janet Lennon of the
Lennon Sisters, hopes sister Dianne will wed Dick Gass,
a paratrooper at Ft. Bragg, in a formal church wedding.

Janet has visions of herself walking
down the aisle in a long, lovely brides-
maid dress. A dream that could come
true. . . . English star Dirk Bogarde
and Ava Gardner, co-starring in the
movie “Temptation” in Rome, have be-
come the closest of friends. Dirk acts
as sort of mentor and guide to Ava,
which is one of the best things that
could happen to the unhappy star who
needs a true friend at this time. . . .
Bob Stack’s one of the few people
who are happy with their new TV se-
ries. . . . Poor Marilyn Monroe. With
half a dozen stars nixing her “Let’s
Make Love” movie, Universal studios
added to her woes by refusing to lend
her Rock Hudson. Finally, French
star Yves Montand took the role.

but has Connie Stevens gone uppity ?

This and That: You wonderful Photoplay readers really
showed your good taste in voting for Rock Hudson as your
favorite actor and Doris Day as your favorite actress,
along with the delightful “Pillow Talk,” produced by
young Ross Hunter, as your favorite movie of the year.
And I certainly agree with your choice of Troy Donahue
and Millie Perkins as your Gold Medal newcomers of the
year. . . . May Britt and Gardner McKay seldom see each
other at their mutual studio, Twentieth. But at Malibu Beach,
where each has a home, that mile-long telephone wire be-
tween them, is the hottest thing in town. . . . Those daring
young men on the flying trapeze are David and Ricky Nel-
son who have worked up quite a clever aerial act. Their
performance at the Western Livestock Show had even the
bulls spellbound. And the boys, who are friends as well as
brothers, have bought adjoining hilltop lots where they plan
to build their future homes, side by side. . . . Saw the Boh
Hopes. Not only is Mrs. Hope lovely to look at, but you
should see their kids. . . . The Barry Coes are still on
“Cloud 9”. . . . The Efrem Zinihalists were off and then on,
recently. Our prediction is that a marriage this rocky, can-
not endure. No one seems to know how it will turn out.

Street Scene: Alexis Smith stood at the cashier’s counter
in a Beverly Hills market with two women customers di-
rectly behind her. “I wish that woman would hurry,” one
woman said to the other, with a nod toward Alexis. “This is
‘Peter Gunn’ night and I’ve simply got to get dinner over
in time to see him. He’s my favorite.” Alexis smiled to her-
self for, of course, he’s her favorite, too. Her favorite hus-
band Craig Stevens, that is.

Street Scene, Act Two: She stood by the drugstore news-
stand in Hollywood glancing at the magazine covers ablaze
with young movie stars. Two teenagers, standing by, were
eagerly thumbing through their recently purchased Photo-
play. “My mother says none of these beauties today can
touch Garbo,” said one to the other. “She must have been
something.” With a quick start, the woman in the slouch
hat hurriedly moved away. For, you see, she was Garbo,
still beautiful, still mysterious and, well, still Garbo — that’s
for sure.

Feeling better. Bob has a family parly at the Stork Club.

Fun On The Run: My friend, producer-director Mervyn
LeRoy, had me in stitches on the “Wake Me When It’s
Over” set with stories of Ernie Kovacs, Dick Shawn and
Don Knotts of the Steve Allen show. “This is a funny
movie,” Mervyn explained, “so I cast real comics in the
roles. But never did I expect anything like this!” And did I
imagine it, or was Ernie s cigar giving out with heart-shaped
smoke rings, what with all those beautiful Oriental girls
roaming the set? And why were half the male workers on the
Twentieth lot loitering about?

Feudin’ And Fussin’: That blowup among the Crosby
Boys wasn’t entirely unexpected. Gary hasn't been happy
for a long time and won’t be until a lot of things are cleared
up between him and his dad, Bing. In case Gary doesn't
rejoin the act, the other three boys, Lindsay, Phil, and
Dennis, are audition-
ing girl vocalists to
appear with them at
London’s Palladium.

The boys always were
so close, I can’t im-
agine them parting
permanently.

( Continued )

Nothing fazes Ernie Kovacs, but Richard Quine and Kim Novak have started spatting.

The glow’s lasting for Barry Coe.

People You Like:

“I’ve had letters about
you,” 1 told Robert
Denver on the “Do-
bie Gillis” set. “Fans
want to know if that’s
your own chin adorn-
ment or is it pasted
on?’ Bob assured me
it was his own home-
grown beard. “The
only trouble is the
beatniks around town
mistake me for one of
them and I can't make
out a word they’re
talking about.” he
groaned. “Man, Dwayne knows Bob’s not fooling.
they’re really way out,

like wow.” Young Denver, who is a bachelor, lives all alone
with a non-talking Myna bird and I’m told gets mighty lone-
some. . . . Cary Grant pantomimed a message to me across

a crowded preview theater
recently and. goodie for me,
I understood him right off.
Incidentally, Cary, who is an-
other “loner,” was all by
himself at the preview. It’s a
mystery to me how that
handsome charmer avoids
“The Tender Trap” set by
some of the town’s designing
females. . . . Ran into Sandra
Dee pushing her own gro-
cery cart at McDaniel’s mar-
ket— her hair a becoming
halo of blond curls. And
Sandra tells me she may be
off to Honolulu for another
“Gidget” movie before she
makes “Romanoff and Juliet
in Europe.

But who’s watching Millie ?

INSIDE

STUFF

continued

Love I9 Swell: “She thinks with her heart,” a studio ex-
ecutive said of Joan Collins, who steadfastly refused to
take off for London and the movie “Sons and Lovers,’ de-
spite a suspension. Nothing would budge Joan from the side
of her true love in New York, actor Warren Beatty, who’s
Shirley MaeLaine's brother. . . . And Shirley’s devotion
to her husband Steve Parker apparently knows no limits.
When Steve telephoned from Japan, over the last holidays,
that he was lonely without their small daughter Steffi. Shirley
flew to Seattle, placed little Steffi aboard a Tokyo plane in
the care of friends, and returned to her own lonely home in
Hollywood. And that my friends, is what I call true and
selfless love.

Janet has her eye on two Tonys, and you can’t blame her.

In My Opinion: Janet Leigh is the most beautiful
“motherly” star in Hollywood. All through her co-starring
stint with Tony Perkins in “Psycho,” Janet watched over
Ton\ like a mother hen, especially at lunch time when Tony’s
diet came in for special attention. Lots of proteins and all
that. No wonder husband Tony Curtis is crazy about the
girl. ... I believe Troy Donahue is the most promising
young actor in Hollywood. But Troy isn’t making any
promises of his own. At least not the wedding bells type of
promises. . . . It’s my opinion Edd Byrnes is weary of his
strike against Warner Brothers for more money. And it’s
my guess he will be right back in his role of Kookie, come
what may. And all we want is the best for Edd. who is both
a good actor and good friend. ... 1 have every hope Fabian
will be a smash hit in his next film “High Time ’ with Bing
Crosby. I don’t think a more likeable boy ever set foot in
14 Hollywood.

Hot Box Corner: During their recent vacation, Debbie
Reynolds, Liz Taylor and Eddie Fisher passed each
other on Palm Springs’ crowded Main Street. And what
happened? Nothing. Liz was gazing in a shop window and
failed to see Debbie. If Eddie saw her he gave no sign. And
neither did Debbie. Passersby who spotted the famous three-
some merely gave a quick look and passed on. Yesterday’s
news, I guess. . . . And don’t let those occasional Debbie-
Glenn Ford dates fool you. I hear on the best authority,
Glenn regards Debbie as an amusing cut-up whose antics
cheer his gloomy heart. Glenn is missing his ex-wife Elbe
and his son these days. . . . The ceiling is the object Roger
Smith will hit first when he learns wife Vici Shaw may be
slated for another location jaunt in the spring. Roger, who
fussed and fumed all through Vici’s stay in Germany for “I
Aim at the Stars,” wants his Vici with him. I really can’t
blame him.

wwwvvwwwvwvwwvwvwvwvwwwvvvwwvwvw<

Homebound : The
beating Anna
Kashfi took from
the London press,
had her tearfully
telephoning Holly-
wood friends for
advice. They gave
it in two words,

“Come Home.”

And Anna, with
baby Christian
Devi Brando, came
home. Happy to be
in Hollywood.

Hearts Dept:

James Darren and
Evy Norlund

were married in
good ole New
York. Last I’ve
heard, the happy
couple were honey-
mooning in Copenhagen. They really had planned to marry in Evy’s native Den-
mark but Jimmy’s movie, “Reach for Tomorrow,” was not yet completed and
love just refused to wait. Their happiness now seems complete and if reports
and rumors of the unhappiness of the first Mrs. Darren have reached their ears,
they give no sign. . . . Lindsay Crosby marched up to the Crosby mansion on
Mapleton Drive with pretty Barbara Fredericks on his arm. “This is the girl
I love and hope to marry,” Lindsay told Bing, who gave a warm handshake to
his favorite son and wished them both well. Barbara was a former dancer in
Tony Martin’s night-club act.

I Look Back: Her popularity blossomed overnight. Before
the year 1939 and the movie, “Goodbye, Mr. Chips,” few
movie fans had ever heard of Greer Garson. After “Pride
and Prejudice” and “Blossoms in the Dust” all America
knew her. In no time, her “Mrs. Miniver” had the movie-
going world Greer Garson-conscious, and the green-eyed
actress with the flaming red hair became an established star.
But Greer, who was born in County Down, Ireland, and
toured the provinces to gain stage experience, never quite
became a part of Hollywood’s merry-go-round circle. With
her beloved mother Nina, whose recent death is mourned by
Greer, she lived a quiet life. Her marriage to Richard Ney,
who played her son in “Mrs. Miniver,” ended in divorce and
several years later Greer married Texas oil-man Buddy Fogel-
son and went into semi-retire-
ment. Her fling in the Broadway
production of “Auntie Marne,” as
Roz Russell’s replacement, and
her recent TV appearance in a
“General Electric” show, give
hope to her many loyal fans that
in the new year they may see
more and more of Greer Garson.

♦vwvwvvwvwvwvwwwwvwvwwvwvwwwvwwww

Lunch with the Smiths: Vici Shaw and her handsome husband Roger Smith,
had me in hysterics with the story of their outing to Lake Arrowhead with
Dorothy Provine and Edd Byrnes. Packing along their water-skis and borrow-
ing their agent’s air-conditioned car, the foursome set out early in the morning.
Well, right from the start, everything happened. The car smoked, caught on fire
and all but blew up every ten blocks. Finally, it let up with a blast spraying
Roger with a brown liquid that burned through his shirt to the skin. “I’ll be

Anna Kashfi and Devi left in a hurry.

scarred for life,” Roger groaned.
Anyway, the weary foursome ar-
rived at the Lake, that afternoon
around four o’clock, only to be
met with a downpour of rain. And
all this time, Edd was frantically
trying to reach Asa Maynor by
telephone, knowing full well he’d
never make it back in time for
their date. And he didn’t. Missing
the highway back, the weary group,
lost and quite forlorn, bumped
along the back roads home vowing
never to go water-skiing again. And
who can blame them? They’ll
never forget that day, that’s for
sure. They call it “The day of the
seventeen horrors!” I couldn’t stop
laughing! ( Continued )

DIANNE McCORD, Senior, David
Lipscomb H. S., Nashville , T enn.says:

“My skin blemishes seemed to get
worse whenever I had something
important to do, even though I
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Glad you discovered its comfort and
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Dinah and George seem so happy now. Bet Harry Karl wishes he knew the secret.

Cal York’s Jottings: Annette Funicello sued Walt Disney

and lost her case. Although Disney brought Annette to fame in his TV “Mouske-
teers” series, she sued to he free of the contract that has two more years to run.
Incidentally, her newest record, “First Name Initial,” is still going up like a high
fever. . . . It’s a pleasure to see such a happily married couple as Dinah Shore
and George Montgomery. . . . Connie Stevens wonders what happened to
her gold platter for “Kookie Lend Me Your Comb.” Edd Byrnes received his
award for their best selling record and Connie, who dueted with Edd, wants one,
too. . . . Gary Crosby is beauing lovely Nancy Sinatra around town these
winter evenings, with Bing’s and Frank’s full approval. Second generation ro-
mance. no less. . . . Audrey Hepburn bowed out of her Paramount picture deal
to prepare for motherhood. Happy Audrey and husband Mel Ferrer expect
their baby next July right here in the good old USA. . . . The Katy Jurado-
Ernie Borgnine marriage finally took place — in Mexico. . . . The car
accident that hospitalized Lee
Remick’s husband. TV producer
Bill Colleran, happened in the ex-
act spot in the road on which
Montgomery Clift all but lost his
life two years ago. Lee flew in
from her “Wild River” location
to be with her husband. . . .

Suzy Parker in Paris cabled pro-
ducer Jerry Wald in Hollywood
when her baby daughter Georgia,
was born, “Now I really have the
Best of Everything.” . . . It’s my
opinion the Kingston Trio, whose
act I recently caught in Kansas City,
is one of the best singing groups to-
day. And my escort. Tony Oppen-
heimer, thought so too. And so did
the hundreds who jammed the place.

The Kingston Trio: What a night!

Just for the fun of it, be a blonde and see ... a Lady And Lady Clairol feels deliciously cool going
Clairol blonde with shining, silken hair! You’ll love on, leaves hair in wonderful condition — lovelier,
the life in it! The soft touch and tone of it! The livelier than ever. So if your hair is dull blonde or
lovely ladylike way it lights up your looks. With mousey brown, why hesitate? Hair responds to
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*T.M. ©I960 Clairol Incorporated, Stamford. Conn. Available also in Canada

BEFORE T R U S H A Y —

f- h • ■ r o ^ i ’ph. sl< in
» i-iouched.

• -'clooer ^6, 1 959

hara-
worked
hands

heal twice as fast

with new

[?a\y-duly

TRUSHAY

Kitchen tests prove it... with women just like you!
Hard-worked hands heal twice as fast with new
heavy-duty Trushay with silicones. Try new T rushay.
What happened to these hands can happen to you.
And new Trushay helps protect your hands against
detergents and through every single chore you do.

AFTER TRUSHAY-

Same hands,
skin unretnuched,
October 30, 1959

TRUSHAY.. .the heavy-duty lotion for hard-worked hands

becoming

attractions

A. Du Barry’s “Tru-Tint” creates vivid
head-lights. washes lasting color into
the hair, adds sheen, softness. In ten
shades, tint and creme developer, $2*

B. Revlon’s “Living Curl” Hair Spray
gently rules the waves, holds hair in
line softly. Special Formula for tint-
ed hair conditions, adds lustre, $1.50*

C. Sunbeam shimmer or moonlight
glimmer can be rinsed in (and out just
as easily) of your hair when you use
Nestle Colorinse. Package of six, 35^*

D. Charles of the Ritz introduces new
Hand Cream Ritz, a creamy pink froth
handily held in a pink plastic tube.
Fragrant and light in texture, $2.00*

E. Snowdrops of sterile white cotton.
Red Cross Cotton Balls moistened with
cologne freshen a hairdo, make warm
oil appliers. Johnson & Johnson, 39 <j:

*plus tax

Win a day at the studio
with Elvis . Send him
this welcome message

ll)e$C&r*£ '-ILtrMfyl

l/kutecL jjfli/ I 0/ wt

1. Fill in your Photoplay greeting, telling Elvis about your-
self and about why you'd like to spend a day at the
Paramount Studio with him.

2. Send as many special Photoplay greetings as you like.

3. Mail to: Welcome Elvis Home Contest

Photoplay

321 South Beverly Drive
Beverly Hills, Calif.

4. Your greetings must be received by March 15, I960.

5. A committee of judges from the offices of Photoplay and
Hal Wallis Productions will select the winner. Their de-
cision is final.

6. All of your greetings will then be sent to Elvis, so he
can read them personally.

Bad

February

flaufrei®’

1, W60

Germany

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de long n0lW ’ tlninS ve^August, ^ea paving an . .

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so ® L learned a 5e0?, \nSoeaa of ®a x tin* 1 x pUt

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along Zr « voo W „tfe the ®os troubles.^ 4ifferant J ,

lot tougher iwe „ied to ^ 3l>ar0 ot oompieteiy ^ an off o

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yet, 1 Q lot of xr Pipic at 0 but never . Sure,

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coarse.^ difXerent & „nderfnl- of weight at ^ use muso^ ^

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didt1’ 1 than X’ d expect e iends *aC* *°u ’remember ' ®e gbs

Better th to ®V fr t they s*x same old y3)

to teU- ist Bave hapP ganged. t°haVe (Contin^d P

A lot must ^ still de.ad\e’lX a^U

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rememher tn ^ old go

.aether,

going-away party had been
arranged in Liz’ honor and
many of the guests who had been
invited were distinguished mem-
bers of American and European
society. When she walked in, just
a little late, Liz looked so beau-
tiful she made almost everyone’s
head turn. She had on a simple,
smartly-cut dress, a magnificent
diamond necklace at her throat
and an exquisite set of matching
bracelet and earrings.

It was obvious she had taken
great care to dress well for the
occasion. So, it was quite a sur-
prise for me to notice that, in-
stead of looking radiant and
happy, she seemed tense and
worried.

Eddie, on the other hand,
seemed relaxed and cheerful
and chatted easily with every-
one there. Liz kept close by his
side, unusually quiet and hardly
speaking a word. She looked
lost, almost as though she felt
uncomfortably out of place. She
did not once venture an opinion
on anything that was said, and
even when she was spoken to
directly, she was evasive and
even, I thought, a little self-con-
scious. ( Continued on page 62)

by MARK ADAMS

take a hint

from the boys

1 if If Wm

who say:

■ : . % . . (ft

-Vrv

bW off
mdAk/w off,

• ••

Tke*t, clutm,

tjouXfc become/
Aomeo*tei

as acted out by
Debbie Reynolds

WHY
DO YOU

Vici Shaw to Roger Smith

Only a few moments ago, Vici came into the room, leaned over me, and
asked softly, “Roger — why do you love me?” She asks this sometimes, for re-
assurance I think, because the question always comes up at times when we’ve
both been busy, and not had too much time for each other.

I didn’t have an answer for her, not a real answer, although I told her how
very much I do love her. I could only give her a few mumbled sentences
which finally trailed off into silence. But now, as I look at her picking up an
ashtray beside me, a whole flood of things seem to come to mind. And I find
I cannot concentrate on the script in my lap at all.

Why does a man love a woman? How can I put it into words? It’s like
asking why do you breathe? Why do you like the feel of wind in your face?
Why do you believe in God? ( Continued on page 80)

Tuesday Weld

A<S1

) L

STOP

e had a date to meet — Tues-
day and I — at her Holly-
wood Hills home at six, around the
time she got back from the
studio. Yet, although I was early, it
seemed only a matter of minutes before I saw
Tuesday, in her brand new Lark convertible,
negotiating the sharp curves which lead up to the
house. Watching the car as it came nearer,
gradually slowing to a halt, I waved “hi” to her and
walked over and opened the door. It was
the first time I had seen the car— a birthday
present from her mother — and I
admired it and congratulated her on it.

“Thank you,” she smiled and said,
and, tossing back her long hair, she hur-
riedly picked up her things from

the seat beside her. As she got
out, I noticed she seemed unusually
flustered. “I’m sorry you had to
wait,” she apologized, “but I got
caught up in heavy traffic on the way here.”

“That’s okay. I was early,” I told
her, matter-of-factly. And we went into the house.
My mother lives up here,” she explained as she led me through
a warm, spacious living room into a small dining
area that stood between the kitchen and the living room. “My
part of the house is downstairs. ( Continued on page 64)

FABIAN:

” I don’t know

just how to tell you,
but I’ve got to say

Fame and
success,
they mean
a lot to me...
but I

found more

important

things

The minute Fabian opened his eyes,
that morning, he felt that something
was wrong. The bright sunlight shin-
ing into his bedroom should have
reassured him, but it didn’t. For a
moment, he just lay in bed, blinking
sleepily, trying to figure out what
was the matter. But he couldn’t.

Getting out of bed, he ran across
the hall into the shower and then
dressed in his old faded blue denims,
red wool shirt, and battered white
bucks. He ( Continued on page 82)

by JIM HOFFMAN

He’d been in Hollywood making
a movie and he’d made public
appearances in lots of other
places. Everywhere he went, the
kids made him feel welcome.
But this is where he really be-
longed, Fabian thought, as he
walked through South Phila-
delphia High. These are the
guys and girls I grew up with.

Fabe tried to catch up on the things that he’d
been missing. It was hard to think that his
friends had been going to class, getting to-
gether after school, making plans for parties
— and all without him. Now they were full of
new plans, new doings. And how about him?
Would he be around to be part of all this?

He loved sports, but there was so little time
for that sort of thing now. Still, it was fun to
stop at the gym for a workout with his pals.

by CHARLOTTE BARCLAY

YY/hen I was little, I was a monster. If any little kid bothered
’ me, I bit him. Once I even shot off a cap-pistol in a sissy
girl’s ear, when she was playing in our backyard. She ran and
told her mother and they caught me down the block, halfway
up a tree. I spent practically the whole first grade standing
in a corner, and I hardly ever listened to my mom. When
she’d say, “Finish those carrots, young lady, or there’ll be no
movie for you on Saturday,” I’d sort of hang my head, swing
my foot against the table leg — ( Continued on page 70)

THE DIANE BAKER STORY

The day began like
any other day for Jerry
Lewis. That is, he
thought it did. He was
in his dressing room, on
the Paramount lot,
putting on his makeup
for his new picture “Cinderfella,”
when suddenly he leaned over
and grinned into the mirror.

“Oh, you handsome, healthy
fellow” he mumbled. “What
wonders makeup can do!” He
started to dress, then the phone
rang. “Yeh,” he shouted into it,
hanging the receiver on the lid
of his derby to light a cigar.

The voice came over, low and

(Continued)

mellow. “This is the Happy Hill,” the voice said sooth-
ingly. “We wonder when it would be convenient to
remove Mr. Lewis. That is to remove him from the lot.”
“Over his dead body,” Jerry protested — nobody was
going to remove him from anywhere, let alone his
own picture. “Who do you think you are, buster?” he
yelled into the phone, puffing excitedly on his cigar.
The voice answered calmly, “Why, I’m the Director.”

Jerry grabbed the receiver from his derby and yelled
once more. “The director — the director of WHAT?”
“Why,” said the voice still quite calm, “the director
of the Happy Hill Funeral Home, of course.”
Jerry looked at himself in the mirror and dropped the
phone. Even his makeup had turned green. His eyes
were bloodshot. But that could be a good sign, he
thought, it could mean he still had blood. Then, as

(Continued on page 67)

by MARGARET GARDNER

Why do you make yourself so myster-
ious, Yul? Why did you tell one reporter
you were born in Japan and then, on the
same day, tell another you were born in
Russia? When still another reporter said,
“I thought you were born in the States?”
why did you just smile, not even moving
an eyelash?

And about that story that your father
was a Manchurian and your mother a
gypsy? You just let it float, sometimes re-'
telling it, sometimes denying it.

What kind of ( Continued on page 84)

SEW A SPRING WARDROBE

Carol Lynley:
“Honest ,
you can dress
like a movie
star, too”

THE BOLERO: Simplicity 3357

BEAUTY TIPS: An expert with
make-up, Carol prefers (wisely)
to look as natural as possible.
She wears pink or rosy-toned lip-
sticks to light up palely pink
foundation. Lashes are whisked
with brown mascara; petroleum
jelly adds lustre to her eyelids.

Be sure to see Carol in 20th Century-
Fox’s “Hound Dog Man” and “Daddy-O.”

FASHION TIPS: “Know your
type,” Carol Lynley told us when
we asked her for fashion advice.
“I’m five-feet-five, so I shy away
from large prints, diagonal stripes
or too bold checks or plaids. I love
white, pastels, most of all blue.

“I adore costume jewelry,” Carol
says, “but I’ve learned to use re-
straint. I like large pocketbooks,
but not so large as to overpower
me, and I love berets — don’t you?
— or just a hint of a hat. Shoes?
I prefer flats, but for dates, parties,
church, I always wear medium-
heels. I sew — you get more clothes
for your money that way — and it
saves on alterations too.

“You’ve got to adapt styles to
your own type,” Carol says. “I
can wear a check suit, if I set it
off with a white blouse.” And she
found when she tried a tunic in
thin vertical stripes, it even made
her look taller. For this spring,
Carol chose a whole wardrobe in
black-and-white — because it’s eas-
ier to accessorize and coordinate.
She. can wear her bordered, wool
check suit skirt (page 42) with the
blouson blouse (page 45). Her
dance dress (page 44) looks pretty
with or without its black-embroi-
dered apron. White shortie gloves
— Carol’s favorite accessory —
complete all her outfits, and her
jewelry’s versatile, too.

“I try to keep my clothes in
good order,” Carol says. “Part of
looking nice is looking fresh.”

turn the page

“Guess what?

All these new
spring clothes
were made from
Simplicity Patterns”

THE OVERSKIRT: Simplicity 3262

THE TUNIC: Simplicity 3349 THE BLOUSON: Simplicity 2896

FOR MORE INFORMATION ON CAROL LYNLEY’S NEW SPRING BLACK-AND-WHITE WARDROBE, TURN TO PAGE 75

FOR SINGLE GIRLS ONLY J

Have you ever sat across the table from a
man and wondered, “Is he the right one for me?”
It’s a serious problem. Far too serious, we
believe, to be left to luck or fate. What happens
if fate makes a mistake? What happens
if you marry the wrong man? Disaster.

It’s obvious that for best results the whole
matter must be approached scientifically.
And here’s how to do it. . . . While it has never
actually been proven that there’s only one man for
one woman, it is true that there is a type
most suited to you. And, since we’ve found from
experience that men can be classified as
simply as apples, let’s see what these types are.

On the following pages, we’ve listed the eight
different types of men — eight Hollywood bachelors
— and on page 50 is a quiz, which, when you’ve
answered all the questions, will tell you which type
of fellow is for you. Found him? Then act now !
Many girls don’t marry because they wait too long.

And, since it’s Leap Year, when you find him
you can pop the question yourself. But a warning:
Don’t cheat on the quiz. If your answers aren’t
honest, you’ll misfire on your score and start
looking for the wrong guy. And who wants to do
that? And be careful. Surveys have proved that
only girls who genuinely want to marry, do marry.

Now turn the page and see who will be your valentine.

leap year guide

£ARY GRANT— Debo-
nair: This name has
come to stand for Sophis-
tication in our time. All
over the civilized world,
twentieth-century woman
knows that even if she
can never be sure what
he’ll do next, it will al-
ways, somehow, turn out
to be the right thing. Even
if he should decide, at a
formal affair, to take a
dip, fully clothed, he’d
still come out of it with
both cutaway and dignity
impeccably dry. The se-
cret is rumored to have
something to do with the
science of hypnosis (he’s
an avid follower), but
what it really has every-
thing to do with is Charm.
His habitat is wherever
particular people gather
— the best resorts at the
most fashionable hours;
his weaknesses are pretty
nonexistent, but he’ll look
twice if you’re a vividly
costumed lady with a
grand manner about you
— the grander the better.
But don’t let all that dig-
nity get the best of you.

( Continued, on page 87)

DANGER

BOB EVANS

(hard-to-snare)

of the BELMONTS

(young & rare)

ROCK HUDSON
(strong & soothing)

1. On a long bus ride, you’d be more likely to

a) talk c) sleep

b) look and listen d) read

2. You’d rather have

a) $100

b) 2 $50 dresses

c) a $100 dress

d) 4 $25 dresses

3. You’d rather resemble

a) Marilyn c) Garbo

b) Debbie d) Bergman

4. If you could win a 6-month trip, you’d choose

a) Moscow c) Bali

b) Paris d) Tokyo

You’d travel by

a) jet c) regular plane

b) passenger ship d) cargo ship

6. You’re more stimulated by

a) competition c) pride

b) love d) praise

7. You’d rather watch

a) horse-racing c) hockey

b) baseball d) tennis

8. You’d give your boyfriend

a) jewelry c) homemade socks

b) skis d) books

9. For your most expensive suit, you’d choose

a) white c) red

b) blue d) black

10. On a first date, you'd like to go

a) night-clubbing c) to the theater

b) to the movies d) for a walk

11. You’d rather dance to the music of

a) George Gershwin c) Cole Porter

b) Benny Goodman d) Duke Ellington

'For every time you chose letter "‘a” score 100 points;
“b” score 200 points; “c” score 300 points; “d” score
400 points. This is a compatability test. Add up your
score to see which type would fall for you. Then turn
back, after adding, and check your type on page 48.

12. To get dressed in the morning, it takes

a) an hour c) hours

b) ten minutes d) half an hour

you

13. At a traffic light, you’re likely to

a) run across
anyway

b) wait in the
gutter

c) fidget from
curb to gutter

d) wait on the sidewalk

14. You like clothes that make you feel

a) desirable c) dignified

b) comfortable d) unobtrusive

15. Flowers from a man you hardly know would
make you feel

a) self-confident c) delighted

b) embarrassed d) sentimental

16. On a rainy afternoon, you’d like to read

a) Lolita c) Memoirs of Casanova

b) Wuthering d) War and Peace

Heights

17. When it comes to foreign movies, you prefer the

a) Italian c) Swedish

b) French d) Japanese

1 8. At the movies, you prefer

a) comedies c) musicals

b) westerns d) dramas

19. You’d love a man to give you

a) furs c) diamonds

b) love-letters d) flowers

20. In fabrics, you’d choose

a) satin c) silk chiffon

b) velvet d) wool

(an extra) Your best physical feature is your

a) figure c) mouth

b) eyes d) hair

IF YOUR TOTAL IS: YOUR TYPE IS:

2.000 to 2,500 Dwayne Hickman

2.500 to 3,000 Frank Sinatra

3.000 to 3,500 Dion of the Belmonts

3.500 to 4,000 Andy Williams

4.000 to 5,000 Bob Evans

5.000 to 6,000 Cary Grant

6.000 to 7,000 Troy Donahue

7.000 to 8,000 Hock Hudson

EDD BYRNES

B I read a survey the

other day that asked
men what was the first
g thing they noticed

■ ’ about a woman. Be-

lieve it or not, most
men said it was her hair. Apd that’s
really true, it’s the first thing I see.

1 SAL MINEO

P- j I like long hair. I
think most fellows do.
It’s more feminine. I
don’t know, but it
^ seems to me a girl
should, too. My sister
says you can wear it up or loose and
look different each time. She’s right.

RICK NELSON

I guess I don’t really
care if a girl’s hair is
long or short. What
I don’t like is the girl
who lets it hang all
over — you know, too
many curls. I like a girl who wears it
natural, and has hair that kind of shines.

MICHAEL DANTE

Tinted hair? I don’t
see anything wrong
with that, but I don’t
like it when the dark
roots show. My peeve
is when the girl’s al-
ways fussing with her hair. Once a
hairdo’s combed, that should be that.

DAVID HEDISON

There was this real
cute girl who lived
near me. I wanted to
ask her out. Then I
saw her one day at
the drugstore, with
her hair in curlers. I always thought of
her like that. No, I never did date her.

GEORGE HAMILTON

I used to go with a
girl who had long
hair. She’d ask me if
she should cut it and
I always told her no.
Well, finally, she did
cut it. And it looked great! I guess
fellows sometimes are too conservative.

5 1 Eva Marie Saint

g(Q Q.t |

jy’tt / wears her hair in

: a simpie long bob.

00 @0f/ Like most blondes

'\f^ ^''p' her hair is fine, so

she takes advantage
I \ of the home perma-

nents made especi-
ally for her type of hair. The effect is
loose and natural and only needs to
be put up twice a week to keep it
perfectly groomed. She uses the fat-
test-size rollers, set in two roivs of
vertical curls. The results: curving
wave and soft, gently upturned ends.

Janet Leigh has one of the most casual,
attractive hairdos in Hollywood. Her hair
is cut short in shaggy petals which she sets
quickly and easily in rows of pincurls. To
add height to her hair, she rolls the top
and sides on small rollers ( under, as for
a pageboy, and tight to her head). W hen
she takes out the pins and curlers she
brushes like mad, then “ finger-combs ” her
hair into its soft-looking, tousled pattern.

Doris Day's short pouffed style is
easy to care for. Straight across the
brow she puts a row of medium-size
rollers, all rolled under and in the
same direction. When it is brushed
out, this ivill give her the high effect
she wants. She' sets the rest in pin-
curls — curled toward the face in front,
in a double row across the back ( re-
verse the direction of bottom row I .

Debbie Reynolds'

hair almost touches
her shoulders — a very
versatile length since
she can wear it in a
pageboy or, as here,
in a French knot. Be-
fore she rolls the back
section for a French
knot, she hair-sprays the front. Before
the spray dries, she combs her bangs into

place and presses the side wave into
shape, by using the back of the comb.

yb n □ Christine Carere’s

bfo ^ hair is long in back

f j and short in front, so

\ _ / all she needs to set is

\ / the front. She does it

with a combination
j [ of pincurls and small

y'' \ rollers. She feathers

a frill of bangs across
her forehead for a romantic touch and
often secures her back hair with specially
designed jeweled clasps that, hold her hair
smoothly in place. An end permanent gives
the body and control needed for hair worn
this way. Hair spray keeps wisps in control.

Dorothy Provine: Dorothy Pro-
vine has beautiful long blond
hair, and so can you if you try
neiv hair colorings for added
hair loveliness. Dorothy doesn’t
have to. set her hair, but. she uses
a natural-bristle hairbrush as a
setting tool, brushing her hair
until it is as smooth as silk, which
makes it easier to twist into her
special French knot — tight to her head and secured with
a minimum of hair pins. The end hair is wrapped into
a flat coil on top of her head. If your hair isn't long
enough, use a hairpiece. Shampoo plus egg adds luster.

Carol Lynley divides her hair in sections— one in front of each
ear, three across the back, and, to be sure of the softness she wants,
she places a strip of cleansing tissue over the hair strand, just the
way you use end papers to wind a home permanent. Then she rolls
the strand up on big rollers, secures them with clips, leaving it set
for just as long as it takes her to shower and make-up. Then a quick
brush-through, a sweep through the bangs, and there’s her casual
look. Extra gloss is from a smoothing of creme or lotion hair dressing.

Loretta Young’s

soft and wavy hairdo,
is a perfect frame for
her face. T o get the
deeply waved effect at
the sides, Loretta uses
medium-size rollers,
one wound under, at
each side, three rollers
wound under again
from front to crown
of head. The rest is pin-curled in medium
sized strands, each row taking a different
direction. The shine on her hair comes
from a creme rinse used after shampoo.

Annette Funicello laughingly calls

her hair style “split level says that

she likes short hair in front to frame

her face and long hair in back. An-

j 'Tt> ' 0^ 'o

nette puts her hair up split-level style,

c agp/

too, by using both rollers and pin-

curls. She rolls the middle section

\ \

under on rollers, the side hair under
on one row of rollers, the rest in pin-
curls. A home permanent gives this
hairdo resiliency, insures its crisp
line and eliminates frequent setting.

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PHOTOPLAY
plays cupid to-

It was on June 15, 1957, that they
first met — on Dick Clark’s Bandstand,
in New York. She, Justine Correlli,
was fourteen, and he, Bob Clayton,
was eighteen. She was dancing with
another boy when he first came into
the huge room, “Yet,” she says, think-
ing back, “I can even remember the
white jacket and black pants he was
wearing.” He just stood by the door
staring at her. Later he told her it was
because he (Continued on page 74)

Justine never thought that she and Bob would ever be together again, especially after what had happened.
But she couldn’t help wishing, over her birthday candles, that somehow it could be like old times again.

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will present the

Photoplay Gold Medal Awards
to the winners,
on his NBC-TV program,
February 22nd,
at 8:30 PM. EST.

Be sure to tune in
and see your favorites
receive their awards.

GOLD MEDAL AWARD

WINNERS

directed by

TROY

Most of you are probably too young
to remember, but, believe it or not,
there are some Photoplay readers who
have been voting for their movie favor-
ites for 39 years. That’s how many
years the Photoplay Gold Medal has
been awarded. And that’s why the Gold
Medal awards are so very special — be-
cause they come straight from you.
This year, you voted for:

ROCK HUDSON: Rock, who won two
Gold Medals for dramatic roles, wins
his third for his way with comedy —
and song! — in “Pillow Talk.” He’s seri-
ous again in “Day of the Gun” for U-I.

DORIS DAY: Doris Kapplehoff and
Roy Fitzgerald (Rock) started in
movies at the same time, hut “Pillow
Talk” is their first picture together. It
wins Doris her second Gold Medal. Her
next: “Please Don’t Eat the Daisies”
for M-G-M (based on the best-seller).

“PILLOW TALK’': This U-I comedy
bubbled its way to three awards for its
stars and itself. For the bright-hearted,
light-handed touch, thank producers
Ross Hunter and Martin Melcher
(Doris’ husband) and director Michael
Gordon. Watch for their next films.

TROY DONAHUE: A six-foot-three
New Yorker, Troy won your votes
when you saw him with last year’s top
newcomer, Sandra Dee, in Warners’ “A
Summer Place.” You 11 see Troy, 23,
next in Warners’ “The Crowded Sky.”

MILLIE PERKINS: Your votes show
director George Stevens he was right in
picking Millie out of 10,225 girls for
the lead role in 20th’s “Diary of Anne
Frank.” Millie, 21, started as a model.

LIZ AND EDDIE

Continued from page 23

Suddenly I noticed Liz get up from her
seat and whisper something to Eddie. He
got up, steered her across the dance floor
and out through the door.

Liz had whispered so softly that not
even the people right next to them had
managed to hear what she said to Eddie.
And no one there could figure out why
they left the party before it was over.

Some thought it was because she and
Eddie had a row. There’d been rumors
that Eddie had been gambling, that he
was broke, that Liz had had to sell some
of her jewelry to pay for their trips. But
I know this wasn’t true, because one of
the maids at the hotel in Spain where we
were all staying — one who had helped Liz
dress — told my wife she had “millions of
diamonds” in a large jewel box. And,
the maid added, from the way Liz looked
after them, she obviously had no intention
of selling them.

I didn’t know, then, why Liz left the
party — not until much later. It was funny,
the way I found out. But I think, to ex-
plain properly, I’ll have to start from the
beginning, from the first time I saw them,
which was last summer.

My wife and I were sitting out on the
patio of the hotel in Spain, where we were
staying for our summer vacation, when
Elizabeth and Eddie happened to arrive
there too.

At first sight, my wife and I disagreed on
Liz’ looks. My wife thought she was stun-
ning; I only thought her intriguing. But
we both agreed that some of the things
we had read about her appearance were
not true; there was no gray whatsoever in
her hair, and she didn’t look overweight.
There were circles under her eyes, though,
and she seemed tired. In fact, she always
looked tired, every time we saw her after
that. Maybe it was due to the strain from
all the trouble she has with her back.

Eddie was a surprise. We had always
thought of him as being sort of nervous
and shy. But he didn’t seem like that at
all. Even though he was in a foreign
country and knew only a few words of the
language, he was able to direct the porters,
who were getting the luggage out of the
car, and tell them exactly what he and
Liz would need first, what they could
bring up later, and so on. He had an air
of authority I would have never expected.

Later, during their stay, we were often
near them at the beach, and sometimes
even saw them in shops in town. So we
were able to get a lot of impressions.

Eddie went on being a pleasant sur-
prise. He was very quiet, but likeable.
We chatted, for a while, on the beach
once, and his manner was very plain and
simple. Every morning, while Liz was
working on her movie (“Suddenly Last
Summer”) , he would read the papers on
the hotel terrace, and in the afternoons
he would take Chris and Mike down to the
beach.

Our conversation first got started when
I remarked on what a wonderful place
this was for children. He nodded and said
yes, it was. We talked a while about Chris
and Mike, and I wondered if Eddie would
say anything about his own little ones.
But all he said was, “You know, my own
children are very beautiful.” Maybe he
would have gone on, but a porter came
down from the hotel, just then, to tell him
that “Senora Fisher” had come back.
Immediately, he got up, called to the boys,
and went to her. He seemed to be very
much in love, and didn’t want to be away
from her for an unnecessary moment.

The more we saw of Eddie, we must
admit, the better we liked him. But Liz —
well, she was puzzling. From everything
we had read, we thought of Liz as a pas-
sionate, exciting woman — a woman who
was always gay, always the center of
attention.

Yet I hardly ever saw her laugh, though
she did smile. She didn’t seem moody,
but she was always withdrawn, always
quiet. When she spoke, her speech was
slow and deliberate, and not very com-
manding. Her eyes were always thought-
ful, never sparkling or gay. Sometimes,
while she spoke, she would touch her ears
or her earrings when she wore any. Other-
wise, her hands just lay quietly in her lap.
Only twice, that I know of, did she get a
little more lively. Once, was when some
photographers discovered her and Eddie
on the beach and started to take pictures.
Then she very sharply asked a man with
them (who was evidently her press agent)
to stand in front of her and block the view.

The other time was when Eddie took
her to a bull fight. She got sadder and
sadder as it went on, and twice she
screamed. Not with excitement, but with
horror. “How can they kill dumb animals
like that?” she said. Then she hid her
eyes. I remembered hearing that, as a
little girl, she had loved animals very
much and always had a lot of pets. So I
guess that was understandable.

But what shocked us was what we be-
gan noticing more gradually. Along with
a quietness that many women have, there
is often a sort of gentle warmth, like a
slow steady flame.

But Liz wasn’t like this.

She always had a good word for every-
body, but her manner was cold. And I
don’t mean just to strangers.

She was cold to Eddie, too.

9 HAIRDOS MEN LIKE BEST

To get another look at the nine
hairdos men like best, as shown on
pages 51-55, see these stars in the
following:

JANET LEIGH can be seen in
Par.’s “Psycho” and “Who Was
That Lady?” for Col. EVA MARIE
SAINT can be seen in “Exodus”
for H. A. CAROL LYNLEY'S in
20th’s “Hound-Dog Man” and
“Daddy-0.” See DEBBIE REY-
NOLDS in “The Rat Race” and
“Pleasure of His Company” for
Par. Also “The Gazebo” for
M-G-M. Hear her sing on the Dot
label and watch for her specials
on ABC-TV. Don’t miss “The
LORETTA YOUNG Show” every
Sun, NBC-TV, 10-10:30 P.M.
EST. Hear ANNETTE sing on the
Buena Vista Label. DOROTHY
PROVINE can be seen on Sun,
9:30-10:30 P.M. EST, ABC-TV
in “The Alaskans.” DORIS DAY'S
in “Please Don’t Eat the Daisies”
for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

And she was a little cold to her kids —
at least it seemed that way to us.

She never once showed Eddie any af-
fection in public. She never took his hand,
never kissed him. If he went over to her
and caressed her, she didn’t seem to mind,
but she didn’t respond, either. And she
often kept him waiting. Sometimes for as
long as half an hour, or even an hour, I’d
see him wandering around in the lobby
while their car waited outside. Finally
the elevator doors would open and Liz
would walk out, not hurrying, not apolo-
gizing, just walking with that cool little
smile of hers. Once Eddie told her off
because there were other people waiting ;
for her too. But mostly he just shook his >
head and said nothing. Or he’d kiss her —
he was always affectionate to her — and
then they’d go out.

With the children it was the same thing,
although she was always quick to see that
they buttoned their coats or didn’t stay ,
in the water too long. But she seemed so
impersonal about it. I never saw her hug
them the way Eddie did, suddenly and
spontaneously. And yet I don’t see how
she could have resisted. They were such
cute kids. Little Mike is so grave all the ;
time, and Christopher is always asking
questions and the little girl, Liza, has
a lot of charm. Eddie was obviously crazy
about them. But Liz never showed them
any real warmth.

So, as we saw more and more of them
in Spain, I said to my wife, “Well, to me,
she’s a woman to look at, but not to
marry.” And my wife said, “You know,
after seeing her so often, I don’t think
she’s beautiful any more. Pretty, yes. But
not beautiful.”

Maybe one reason Eddie was so good
with the kids was that he was trying to
make up for Liz’ remoteness. Anyway,
he was exceptionally patient.

I remember one morning particularly
well. Eddie was reading the paper on the
terrace when suddenly Mike, Jr. started
rocking Eddie’s beach chair rather hard.
Eddie told him to quit. Mike stopped for
a minute, and then began again, this time
upsetting the chair. Down onto the grass
went Eddie, all tangled up in the canvas.
Naturally everyone on the terrace was
laughing. But Eddie looked furious, al-
though he controlled himself very well, j
just scolding Mike quietly and telling him
that he must stop and obey what Eddie
said. Then he explained to Mike that
simple accidents like this can really hurt
someone, and he asked Mike if he wanted
to hurt anyone. Mike said no, he didn’t,
and that he was sorry.

And then Eddie, untangled at last, said
very softly that it was okay — and with a
little rush, Mike grabbed him and kissed
him and then ran off to find his brother.
And, as I watched, I couldn’t help won-
dering if Mike would have kissed his
mother in public that way. Afterward,
Eddie dusted himself off, laughed and just
said, “Boys will be boys, I guess.”

It was very strange. So much warmth
on his side — so much coolness on Liz’.

Other people felt it, too. Liz and Eddie
had an interpreter with them most of the
time, to help them shop, straighten out
bills and so on. He told me an interesting
story. One day, he said, while he and
Eddie were downtown shopping, a wom-
an came up to them in the street and asked
the interpreter if that was really Eddie
Fisher. The interpreter said yes, it was.
So the woman reached out and touched
Eddie’s arm. She said in Spanish, “That’s
better than an autograph.” Then she
quietly left. The Spanish are like that.
But I never heard of anyone touching Liz.
She might have had a hands-off sign.

As I said, all this seemed very strange
to us, and we’d keep wondering, “Why,

why, why? What’s changed her so much?”

Then, one evening, we saw something that
gave us a clue at last. We were sitting in
the lobby when Eddie and Liz came down,
all dressed to go out. They stopped at the
desk and Eddie mentioned they were go-
ing to a little night club in town. The
clerk looked startled for a moment when
he heard the name and then said some-
thing about it not being a place for “ladies.”

Eddie just laughed and turned to go, but
Liz didn’t move. She seemed to flush and
her eyes began to snap. Another moment
passed then she turned on her heels and
walked back into the elevator. Eddie
stared for a minute and then he shrugged
and shook his head as if confused.

Well, that was it as far as we were con-
cerned. Everything fell into place, then,
like a jigsaw puzzle. It explained the
soft voice, the coldness — and everything.

I believe Liz Taylor would give almost
anything to be considered a lady. And
that’s what Liz has been trying to be.

Only she’s making a mistake a lot of
people make when they try to imitate high
society. They think being upper class
means having your nose in the air and
wearing a look of cool haughtiness in
public, even going as far as Liz went
toward her own husband and children.
Whereas a real lady can be the warmest,
most down-to-earth person in the world.
In quieting down her clothes and manners,
Liz also tossed away her warm heart.

And so that’s why she must have left
the party. She had tried to look so well
for the occasion, so much like a lady, but
instead had failed. She was the only one
who had had so much jewelry on — even
the most socially prominent woman wore
just a wedding ring and a pearl bracelet.
And also, unlike the rest of the women,
she had not been able to talk about all the
subjects an aristocratic, well-educated
lady usually knows about. Liz has just
never had this kind of education. And I
think she’s very conscious of it.

Before we had much chance to confirm
or deny this theory, Liz and Eddie and
the kids packed up and left for England.
We forgot all about it, until a few months
later when I happened to read a piece by
their English chauffeur.

Liz had evidently told him: “I want the
boys to be little gentlemen. Make sure
they always say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’
Don’t let them argue with you.” It fitted
in perfectly.

And the chauffeur told a sad little story,
too, about how Mike Wilding, Liz’ second
husband and father of her sons, was
invited to dinner with her and Eddie, be-
cause that was the “civilized” thing to do.
Nobody relaxed for a minute that evening,
he said, including the kids, who were
hustled in and out, allowed just to shake
hands with their own father, and then
rushed off before their company manners
could disappear!

And all the papers went on saying how
soberly Liz was beginning to dress. When
she got back to New York, we read that
Liz refused the part she was given in
“Butterfield 8” because it was “too much
like a prostitute.” A friend of ours saw the
script before and after it was rewritten
for Liz and told us the part had really
been much better before. “If she’s so wild
to get an Oscar,” he said, “as she says she
is, she might remember that for every
Oscar won for playing a saint, three go to
those who play bad girls! Don’t understand
that woman,” he added. We figured we
did, though. It was Liz, still trying to be a
real lady. The End

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E Rush me a copy of the March, 1960 issue of =
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= Please Print

SEE LIZ AND EDDIE IN M-G-M’s “BUTTERFIELD
8.” ALSO, BE SURE TO SEE LIZ IN “SUDDENLY
LAST SUMMER” FOR COLUMBIA AND IN 20th’s
“CLEOPATRA.” HEAR EDDIE SING FOR RAMROD.

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TUESDAY WELD

Continued, from page 29

I’d like you to see it, but it’s such a mess.
I haven’t had a chance to straighten it out
myself, and we only have a maid once a
week — on Saturdays.”

I sat on a stool while Tuesday poured
some orange juice. There was so much
to talk about. Tuesday’s reputation, for
instance, had been mushrooming, making
her into a barefoot 16-year-old sort of
beatnik with too much cheek, who dated
older men, smoked, took an after-dinner
cocktail and said just about anything that
came into her head.

I’d known Tuesday from the time she’d
first come to Hollywood — frightened but
not dull. She was fifteen and had come
out to play Comfort Goodpasture in “Rally
’Round the Flag, Boys!” I couldn’t believe
she’d changed so much.

As Tuesday set the glass of orange juice
before me, she opened a fliptop box
and withdrew a filter-tipped ciga-
rette. There was nothing furtive or self-
conscious about the gesture. “Whatever
made you start smoking?” I asked her.
She looked thoughtful.

“I started smoking actually because I
wanted to learn how to smoke,” she re-
plied with the simple candor I had learned
to expect of her. She was quick to admit
that she was no less susceptible to pres-
sures of conformity than most other teen-
agers. “I thought it was terribly chic. I had
an older girlfriend who smoked. So I’d just
go around with her and try smoking, too.
She and everyone else would go into hys-
terics because I didn’t know how.”

“That did it,” she smiled. “I just made
up my mind that I was going to be the
best smoker in town. I sat down, one
night, for three hours, and my girlfriend
taught me how. She taught me how to
hold the cigarette, how to light it, how to
flick the ashes — everything.

“That doesn’t make me a freak or
anything unusual!” she exclaimed sud-
denly. “Fifty thousand people in this part
of the hill smoke. Everybody smokes. And
I don’t think it gives any insight at all into
my personality, which is something I’ve
heard people say. It doesn’t say I’m smart
and it dqpsn’t say I’m stupid. It doesn’t
even say I’m nervous — which I’ve heard
tell, too. All it says is that I smoke.”

There was a moment’s interruption as

the phone rang. Tuesday listened, then
politely told the caller that her mother
would be in later. She turned back to me.

“The way it seems to me,” she said, not
forgetting what she had been talking
about, “if a girl’s old enough to get mar-
ried, she should be old enough to smoke.”

She seemed so sophisticated but I won-
dered because, in unguarded moments,
Tuesday’s face seemed to wear the be-
wildered expression of a little girl. Maybe
it was this little girl, rather than the so-
phisticate, that made her gravitate so
much toward older men.

I thought about this for a moment, then
asked her about the “older men.” Did she
date them because subconsciously she
might be looking for the father she never
had — for protection?

Tuesday knitted her face in a thought-
ful expression. “I’m sure it’s not because
I like to be protected,” she said emphati-
cally, “because I feel I can protect myself.”

And then she got up and led me over to
a portrait of her father on the wall of her
mother’s bedroom. It had been done when
he was thirty-two.

“Wasn’t he handsome?” she said wist-
fully.

He was. He had a lean, sensitive face,
bright, penetrating eyes, and a faint ex-
pression of scorn. He’d been a stock-
broker and gentleman farmer in Cape
Cod, but had given it up because of ill-
health just before Tuesday had been born.
He died when she was only three.

“I remember one thing about him,”
Tuesday sighed. “I remember one night it
was raining and he came into the house
dripping wet. Dad was tall — six-feet-four.
He took off his hat and raincoat and
squatted right down and opened up his
arms for me to come to him. I don’t re-
member what he said. I just remember
him squatting down and opening his arms
to me.”

She turned away a second. “That’s a
lovely memory,” she said softly. “Isn’t it?”
She evidently didn’t want it to appear that
she found it painful to think of her father.

She said only once had anyone reminded
her of him.

“It was about a year ago,” she recalled.
“I was in New York, and a boy brought
me home from Trinity Church. He was a
thin, blond boy, well-dressed and well-
mannered. He was tall and elegant. For
some strange reason, he reminded me of
my father. I don’t know why I didn’t see
him again, but I just didn’t.”

Tuesday tried to explain why older men
appealed to her. “There’s more security

with them,” she maintained. “Older peo-
ple just have more confidence in them-
selves. They have assurance. When you’re
just around them or talking to them, it
gives you a more confident feeling. That’s
why I can open up more with older people
than with younger people. But I’m sur-
prised that all young people don’t feel
that way.”

Her critics had implied, many times, that
Tuesday was merely seeking thrills —
and publicity — by dating men twice
her age. They have particularly belabored
her for going out with actor John Ireland.
Tuesday frowned helplessly when I men-
tioned that.

“John and I are only friends,” she said.
“We get along well. We have a lot to talk
about. I have a neighbor who’s about
sixty. I see him every once in a while. I
talk to him. There are older men who are
grips at the studios, and I talk to them.
I find interest in them. There’s some kind
of communication.”

And only at this point, during the whole
evening, did Tuesday’s attitude of detach-
ment give way to irritation. And I noticed
she was moving an ashtray around, nerv-
ously.

“It doesn’t mean just because I’ve been
seen at some party with John Ireland, or
in some group with him, that we’re having
a romance.” Her tone became one of ex-
asperation. “This is presumptuous, to say
the least. I think it’s very ignorant of peo-
ple. It shows how small-minded they are.”

As far as Tuesday is concerned, her
friendship with Ireland has been utterly
beyond reproach.

“We’re usually with friends, when we
see each other,” she pointed out. “He
knows my mother well. Besides, I don’t
think anyone should be limited to friend-
ship based on age alone. It’s putting a defi-
nite schedule on mental development. It’s
saying you cannot like or talk to anyone
over such and such an age. It’s saying
you cannot be friendly with so-and-so
because he’s six years older than you
are. Why? What if you want to seek out
and learn a little more than the people
you already know and have been with?

“I’m friends with kids my own age,
too,” she cried. “I’m not a freak! I know
plenty of kids and get along very well
with them. I don’t practice any class dis-
tinction according to age. It’s other people
who seem to be doing that for me. I stick
up for the teenagers because I think we’ve
taken a bad beating!”

And then she explained about her bare-
foot appearance on an hour-long tele-
vision show a few months ago — for which
she was accused of blatant exhibitionism.

“I was just back from a weekend in
New York, and I’d just completed a Dobie
Gillis show,” she began, trying to tell me
exactly what had happened. “I’d been
working very hard and when I returned
home I was exhausted. I’d lost about 15
pounds, can you believe it? I was just
about at an end and, that very night, I
was supposed to do this show. All I really
wanted to do was to go to sleep.”

An hour before she was due at the
studio, she dozed off and didn’t wake up
until ten minutes before airtime.

“I could have died. I threw on my dress,
grabbed my pocketbook and ran. By the
time I reached the studio, I was so late
that, in my rush, I somehow tripped get-
ting out of the car. My heel snapped right
off and I just wanted to cry. There wasn’t
time to go home and get another pair. So,
I thought, instead of hobbling — it’d look
funny — it would be better to take the
other shoe off since I was sure they
weren’t going to photograph my feet!”

But they did. And, when the interviewer
inquired if her bare feet represented a

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device to get attention, Tuesday jokingly
tried to pass it off with: “No, I’m a
beatnik.”

“It would have taken six weeks to ex-
plain why I really came with no shoes,”
she told me, and then she paused. “I don’t
know whether I’m a beatnik or not. There
are 50,000 definitions and explanations of
the word. I think I’m a young girl who is
doing her job and working hard at it.”

She seemed really hurt and suddenly
said, again, “I’m not a freak!”

Then she looked sad. And I asked if she
ever cried.

“I cry pretty well,” Tuesday smiled,
pushing back a lock of hair that had
strayed across her cheek. “I hold off most
emotion until the time comes where it is
so built up, I explode. Then I cry for a
week. When I start crying, you can’t stop
me.”

So it has been all her life — the mask of
aloof worldliness behind which lay hidden
hurts.

Less than a fortnight earlier it had hap-
pened again. Some friends were at the
house, and Tuesday volunteered to get
some food at the Gaiety Delicatessen on
Sunset Strip.

“I was supposed to be back in a couple
of minutes, but I was gone more than an
hour,” she confessed. “I got about $10
worth of food, just about everything they
had — fudge, cold cuts, pickles, olives,
knishes, lox. It was such fun picking out
all the stuff. But, when I got home, every-
one was quite disgusted with my lack of
consideration.”

Tuesday didn’t blame them, either, but
the reproach was more than she could
bear.

“I lost my appetite completely, threw
down my food, and cried,” she said, “be-
cause I was hurt.”

And then suddenly she started talking
about her childhood, about a time when
she was around three or four, and her
favorite plaything was a battered old
beanbag her grandmother had given her.

“I got attached to a little beanbag the
shape of an egg, like Humpty Dumpty,”
she said “It had little crooked legs and
arms attached to it. This was my little
doll. All the other little girls in the neigh-
borhood had Jane Cries dolls. I didn’t
have a regular doll’s blanket, either. I had
a little crocheted multicolored blanket for
Jacob. That’s what I called my beanbag.”

Jacob was so different from the other
dolls, even as Tuesday, in her way, was
so different from the other children.

“The real reason I didn’t like the dolls,”
she tried to explain, “was because when
the dolls cried they weren’t real. I just
didn’t like the idea of filling the dolls
with water and turning them upside down
to make them cry. I’d rather coddle my
mother’s nail polish or Jacob.”

A soft, nostalgic smile spread across
Tuesday’s face.

“Jacob had the most beautiful expres-
sion,” she went on. “The dolls all had the
same expression, but I could change
Jacob’s looks anytime I wanted, just by
twisting his legs or squeezing him. He
had the most flexible features. You could
sit him on a shelf. You could cross his
legs. He was always interested. He had an
inquisitive look on his face all the time.”

But the look on the faces of the other
children, she told me, was one of ridicule
and scorn.

“They always made fun of me and my
beanbag. One day, they just grabbed him
away from me and threw him in the
street. They put him in the gutter where
it was muddy and dirty. They said how
silly it was to act as if Jacob was a real
doll, and they had a real laugh over it.”

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She stopped for a second, then finished.
“I gave him a bath and he was fine the
next day. But I cried for a week.”

And she remembered how, while the
other children were playing, she was al-
ready working — as a child model. A friend
of her mother’s, who was a designer and
buyer for a department store in New York,
had seen Tuesday’s photograph in a family
scrapbook and remarked what a good
model she would make. Times were hard
and Tuesday convinced her mother it
would be fun. So her mother agreed, and
soon she became one of the most popular
young models in town.

Yet, just a few years later, she had to
stop because, she remembered, she became
unpleasingly plump — something which
gave her friends another opportunity to
laugh.

And so her mother continued to struggle
alone, to bring up Tuesday, her sister
Sally and her brother David.

How far has Tuesday traveled emotion-
ally from the loneliness and unintentional
non-conformity of her childhood? Holly-
wood has found her a colorful personality,
but popularity has not erased those early
times of difference and struggle.

Tuesday has been depicted as a fun-
obsessed, tempestuous teenage partygoer.
Yet, I learned, she would rather go from
a party than to one.

“One of my favorite things,” she in-
sisted, “is to be alone. When I’m alone, I
can think.”

She leaned forward, put her elbows on
the table, and cupped her face in her
hands.

“Sometimes I like to be alone for a
couple of days at a time,” she said, “just
thinking, writing, reading, drawing or
maybe just cleaning the dishes. Or driving
up a new street that I never drove on.

“When I go to a party, where a lot of
people sit around gossiping,” she said, “I
leave and I feel kind of empty. So why
waste time going to a party when you
could have started what you really wanted
to do a lot earlier?”

Unbidden, Tuesday burst out laughing.

“I had a wild passion, the other night,”
she squealed joyously, “to go out and get
a box of crayons! Isn’t that funny — I
wanted crayons and a coloring book! I
just wanted to do something simple and
fun.”

“Tuesday never talks about love,” her
mother once told me. “She’s had little
crushes, yes, puppy love crushes that
lasted two or three weeks, but never any-
thing more serious.”

“But I’m lonely,” Tuesday said. The
words were like a forlorn echo. “I’m al-
ways lonely — for people. I like the warmth
of people. Some people don’t generate
any warmth. There are very few who
actually do. I’m always seeking that kind
of person. This, of course, is when I want
to be with people.”

I told her I understood what she meant.

Then, there was a silence and, looking
down at my watch, I noticed it was get-
ting late. “I must be going now,” I said.
“But thank you for talking with me.”
And she smiled and then led me across the
wide, green-carpeted room, past a beauti-
ful fireplace, and on to the front door.

“Goodnight,” she said quietly, then
added, “But do you think the whispers
about me will ever stop?”

“I hope so,” I said. I really didn’t
know. . . . —WILLIAM TUSHER

SEE TUESDAY IN U-l’s “THE PRIVATE LIVES OF
ADAM AND EVE” AND “BECAUSE THEY’RE YOUNG”

for col. she’s on cbs-tv, tues., 8:30-9

P.M. EST, “the MANY LOVES OF DOBIE GILLIS.”
SEE HER IN U.I.’S “SURVEY: THE TEENAGER”
AND “SEXPOT GOES TO COLLEGE” FOR A. A.

JERRY LEWIS

Continued from, page 39

though he were trying to reassure himself,
he said out loud. “I don’t think I’m dead.
And I think I should know. After all,

I somebody oughta ask me about it. But
then,” he added, “how could you tell you
were dead? This is exactly the kind of
thing even your best friend wouldn’t tell
you.”

He finished dressing (somehow a body
looks better that way), and decided to
call Patti. She’d tell him the truth. He
dialed. The line was busy, so he sat down
to wait. Being dead, he realized, was
enough to start a guy thinking. Like what
if he weren’t dead but nobody would be-
lieve him? He could see himself in a
hospital. The waiting room was crowded
and the nurse wouldn’t pay any attention
to him. He kept yelling, “But I’ve got to
see a doctor. I’ve got to see a doctor. Can’t
you see I’m dead?”

But the nurse wasn’t impressed; she just
kept putting her fingers up to her lips,
and with a shh pointed to the SILENCE
sign that hung over her desk.

Then the scene changed; he saw himself
on a long slim board that looked like an
operating table. A doctor, with a long
beard, leaned over him while another one,
with a big carving knife, shook his head
sadly. Obviously, they were getting ready
for the autopsy.

“Yes, yes, he is dead,” everybody agreed;
everybody, that is, but him. Every time he
tried to tell them, he could tell that, like
the nurse outside, they didn’t believe him.
Finally, he jumped off the table, getting
away from their clutches, and ran all the
way down the corridor just as fast as his
feet could carry him. The doctors and nurse
followed him; he couldn’t find a door to
escape and then. . . .

The phone rang. He jumped up from his
chair. Was he dreaming? He couldn’t
tell.

He picked up the telephone. Someone
calling from the Paramount publicity de-
partment. Would he talk to the members
of the press? Nobody would believe them,
the man kept saying, nobody would believe
that Jerry Lewis was alive. The telephone
board was overloaded with calls.

“Jerry Lewis is alive,” he heard one of
the secretaries at the other end of the
phone insist to a magazine editor. “In fact,”
he heard her say, “he’s talking to us over
the phone right now. Unless he’s plugged
in from way out, he’s alive!”

“See what I mean, Jer,” complained the
publicity man. “Nobody believes us. We’ve
had over three hundred calls in the last
half-hour. We don’t even know how the
rumor started.”

“Probably this morning at that meeting,
when I didn’t say anything for three
minutes, everybody thought I was dead,”
Jerry gagged.

“Will you take some calls?” the man
asked. “There’s someone who says he’s a
friend of yours calling now.”

“Sure,” said Jerry. It was a newspaper-
columnist friend calling from New York.
He was speaking very solicitously. “Hey
what’s the matter?”

Jerry yelled: “What’s the matter? You’re
talking so nice to me ... is it because you
think I’m dead? Well, if you want to know
the truth, I don’t think I am.”

“But you must be,” the fri nd insisted.
“It came over the Dow-Jones teletype
from the West Coast and was announced
on the floor of the New York Stock Ex-
change that you died of a heart attack.”

“See, what did I tell you?” Jer told
himself. “Nobody’ll believe you. The doctor
didn’t believe you, neither did the nurse,

The wonderful new 1960 Photoplay Annual is now available.
Here is Hollywood’s most exciting book of the year. Here are
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ON THE RECORD — Pages and pages of pictures
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BIG CLICK — Pictures, as well as a thumbnail
description of — Edd Byrnes • Annette Funi-
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I Bartholomew House, Inc. Dept. WG-360 I

| 205 E. 42 St., New York 17, N. Y.

I Send me PHOTOPLAY ANNUAL 1960.

[ I enclose 50c. |

[ Name |

| (Please Print) ;

I Address — j

• City State ;

EXCLUSIVE STORIES ABOUT . . .

THE HOLLYWOOD YEAR

and now one of your best friends won't
believe you. What do they think? If I were
going to die, I’d die with a bigger audience
than this!” he thought to himself.

A knock on the door interrupted his
thoughts and he jumped up. It was a
group of reporters with the publicity man
who had called before.

“Well, Mr. Lewis,” one reporter greeted
him. “How does it feel to be dead?”

“I don’t know,” Jerry laughed. “I’m still
warm. I can’t tell yet.”

“It’s the pulse that counts,” joked an-
other newsman.

Jerry, looking serious, removed his
sweater, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt
and pressed his fingers on his wrist. He felt
again. He couldn’t find his pulse. “Boys,”
he said, “this is more serious than any of
us thought. I have no pulse.”

As he sat there, he could see the press
boys eyeing him. They had that same old
look of disbelief. “Look, fellas,” he said
pleadingly, “after all, did you ever see a
corpse like this?”

Nobody answered. So, turning to his
secretary, Rita Dillon, who just walked
in, Jerry asked, “Tell them the truth, Rita.”

“It’s true,” she said, talking to the re-
porters. “I got a call from an excited radio
listener around noon. ‘Jerry Lewis is dead,’
she said. For a long time, I didn't know
how to break the news to Jerry, but finally
I, and a couple of other secretaries, went
over to the set where Jerry was doing a
scene wtih Anna Maria Alberghetti. We
didn’t want to ruin the take so we waited
until he’d finished. Then we told him. The
first thing he said was, ‘Now girls, don’t
you think I’d make a better-looking corpse
than this!’ We laughed and had the pub-
licity department take some pictures of
him with Anna Maria so we could service
them to the wire photo services.”

Someone then said, “Let’s pick up the
news,” and flicked on a small portable
radio to a local station. The news was
on. A voice was saying, “Comedian Jerry
Lewis died today, here in Hollywood. The
comedian was stricken while on the set of
‘Cinderfella,’ the picture he was currently
producing and starring in. The actor was
ill since Tuesday, when he suffered a
collapse on the set while doing a scene
requiring him to run at top speed up a long
staircase. The studio emergency squad was
rushed in and the actor was revived and
continued to work, but undoubtedly, the
strain was more serious than reported.
The actor succumbed today. He was only
33 years old. . .

Jerry looked around the room. “Fellas,”
Jerry said. “You’ve got yourselves a scoop.
The first exclusive interview with a talk-
ing corpse.”

Within ten minutes, Jerry gave his in-
terview to KMPC newsman, Chet Cassel-
man, and it was recorded and broadcast
over disc jockey Dick Whittinghill’s KMPC
program, less than forty-five minutes after
the other local radio station aired the
erroneous obituary. Tapes were sent all
over the country. The interview went like
this:

“Jerry,” said Chet Casselman, “it’s good
to hear your voice . . . and I’d like to have
you point out the exaggerated reports of
your death to our listeners. . . .”

“Thank you, Chet,” Jerry answered. “I
just want to say that there is no truth to
the reports that I died ... I know I’m alive
because I can look at a mirror across the
room and see me move . . . and breathe . . .
I look bad . . . but not that bad . . .”

“Wonderful, Jerry ... I want to get this
word out to your millions of fans right
away . . . we’re being swamped with calls
here at KMPC News. . .

“Well, Chet, I want to tell you for sure
. . . that I just can’t die right now . . .
otherwise I’d have to release ‘Cinderfella’

as a two-reeler ... I know I shouldn't
joke about it . . . but the thing that really
upsets me is that this is the third time
I’ve been dead in the last two months . . .
and I’m afraid that when I really go . . .
nobody will care . . . !”

“You couldn’t be more wrong . . . Take
better care of yourself for a while now . . .”

“Oh, I feel fine, Chet . . . just a little tired
from all this . .

“Dying takes a lot out of you,” Jer
concluded as he finished the telephone
recording, the press interview, the photo-
graphs, the telephone calls and the hun-
dreds of wires of condolences. “It’s a good
thing it doesn’t happen often.”

He should have known something was
going to happen, by the way that day
had begun. The alarm clock didn’t go
off until 4:30— that should have been an
omen— then he got up and stubbed his toe
and let out a shriek that woke up the baby.
And by the time he reached the bathroom,
to shower, nine-year-old Ronnie had al-
ready locked himself in and was reciting
“Gunga Din” under water. He banged on
the door. Ronnie didn’t hear him but Gary,
fourteen, did. Jerry ’d been avoiding Gary
for three days. He was not going to be
talked into installing a fourth telephone.
Gary was too young for a private telephone.
He saw Gary coming down the hall to the
other bathroom so to avoid telephone talk,
Jerry slipped into the linen closet and sat
on the floor, waiting till he passed. Gary
must have seen him, though, otherwise why
did he, at four o’clock in the morning, come
in and sit on the floor of the linen closet,
too? Jerry didn’t stop to ask him, but
stumbled out, leaving Gary two telephone
breaths behind.

He was relieved when he got back to his
room. There hadn’t been one word about
a telephone, and he closed the door with
a sigh.

“Hi, Pop?” asked a voice from his bed.
It was four-year-old Scottie; he was read-
ing a picture magazine. Jerry finally got
him out of the room, by reinstating Scottie’s
TV privileges. They’d been taken away
when he’d ganged up on Chris, two.
Scottie’d promised he wouldn’t hit Chris
with his mother’s good perfume. Later that
morning, Patti called and told him that
Scottie insisted this didn’t mean he couldn’t
hit Chris at all!

Leon Bennett, Jerry’s valet, had break-
fast ready in his room, but by the time he
sat down to eat, the orange juice was
warm. If there was anything he hated it
was warm orange juice, so he just picked
on his egg and toast and left the house
earlier than usual — at 5:15 instead of 5:30.

It was still dark out, and the nine-mile
ride from the house to the studio calmed
his nerves. He enjoyed the drive. Leon
was with him. Leon bad been working for
him for two-and-a-half years. He had six
kids, one more than Jerry. They made
small talk. Jerry usually drove and Leon
usually rode to work with him. “It’s been
about two years — two years and a half —
that we’ve been doing this together,” he’d

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said to Leon, feeling a little sentimental.

Leon nodded and said, “You know, I was
thinking the other day. I’ve learned one
specific thing since working for you. One
has to pass two tests. Namely, bow long
can you stay awake and how long can you
go without food? After you’ve passed these
two, anything else you give the job is a
plus.”

As he drove along, Jerry couldn’t figure
out if that was a compliment or a gripe.

When they arrived at the office on the
lot, Rita was already there waiting with a
hot cup of coffee and three hours of dicta-
tion. Things had settled down.

At nine, director Frank Tashlin called for
the first take. “How should I greet you this
morning?” he said with his usual fondness.
“Should I pay you the deference due a
producer, or should I treat you as the
idiot?”

“As though you had to ask.” Jerry
flipped back. They went into the first scene.
Then, around noontime, Rita came with the
news. The rest of the day turned into a
shambles.

What he didn’t know then, but would
find out much later, was that the rumors
had made Patti’s and the children’s day a
shambles, too. His family was hit hard.
Particularly Patti . . .

She was driving alone, on her way home
from the market, when she turned on
the car radio. The announcement was
just being broadcast: “Jerry Lewis is re-
ported to have died suddenly.” She didn’t
know how, but she managed to stop the car
without an accident, sitting there, stunned
for about five minutes, before driving on to
the nearest service station. From there, she
called the studio. All the lines were tied
up with calls. Jerry, in the meantime, was
still trying to reach her — unsuccessfully—
at home. By the time they got connected,
Patti was hysterical.

“What about the kids? Have they heard?”
he asked her. She left the station and
drove home, arriving just in time to get a
call from Gary who was at school.

“I’m calling from the principal’s office,
Mom,” he explained. “When I was on the
playground, I heard that Dad was dead.
Is it true?” Patti quieted his fears.

Ronnie didn’t say anything, but that
night, when Jer came home from work,
he kept following him around the house
and clung to him without explaining why.
Patti, who cooks most of their meals, had
made him his special dish — Italian-style
chicken. Gary didn’t say a word about the
telephone and Scottie, without being told,
gave up his TV privileges and agreed that
under no circumstances would he hit Chris
again.

“It was almost worth it all,” Jer kidded.
The house was quiet; the dinner, serene.
The kids even went to bed without being
told. “I must have made heaven, Patti,” he
said.

When only he and Patti were left at the
dinner table, he said, thinking of the
thousands of wires and phone calls, “It’s
a wonderful feeling to know that there are
so many people who are concerned about
us.” Then, almost an after- thought, he
added: “But you know what? Now, when I
do die, do you think anybody’ll believe it?”

Patti just smiled, and blew out the
candles on her side of the table.

“Wow, what a day,” he said and blew out
the candles nearest bim. “Do you mind if I
turn in early?” he asked, slumping down
into his chair for a few seconds. “I’m dead.”

“Jerry Lewis!” Patti screamed across the
length of the table. Jerry jumped up.
“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t you ever say that word again!”

THE END

don't miss jerry in paramount’s “visit

TO A SMALL PLANET” AND IN “CINDERFELLA.”
LISTEN TO HIM SING ON THE DECCA LABEL.

HOLLYWOOD

Continued from page 7

in Hollywood, only it happened in N. Y.

We’re wandering through Memory Lane,
and a nice lane it can be when it’s on the
M-G-M lot, near the fig tree outside of
Greta Garbo’s old dressing room. After a
day’s shooting, when Garbo was in a good
mood, she’d reach up, grab a fig, and chew
it as she climbed the wooden stairs to her
room. You don’t see things like this these
days because neither the fig tree nor Garbo
are at M-G-M. (I wonder if Greta took the
tree with her.) And along the Lane you
could see Marlene Dietrich hiding her
famous legs in men’s trousers. What a sen-
sation Dietrich caused. She had her suits
made especially for her by a prominent
men’s tailor. A card in his shop window
read: “Be a Well-Dressed Man, Wear a
Suit Like Marlene Dietrich’s.” Then Holly-
wood Boulevard was a place where you
could bump into movie stars; a place where
on a summer-hot December 25th, the
streets were sprinkled with artificial snow
to help the movie stars dream of a White
Christmas.

Hollywood was white, clean, small-
screened and romantic. Clark Gable was
romancing Carole Lombard; Tony Martin
and Alice Faye were singing to each other;
Robert Taylor and Barbara Stanwyck wore
similar riding habits and little Mickey
Rooney asked Ava Gardner to be his wife.
Little did the Mick realize that Ava was to
head a long list of wives. I’ll always be
fond of Rooney. He heads my list of favor-
ite child actors. You can have all the others.
Mick’s the only child star who was con-
siderate enough not to outgrow me.

I remember Zsa Zsa Gabor when she
wasn’t a blonde as if it were yesterday.
Maybe it was? ... I remember The Troca-
i dero, the greatest of all Hollywood night
clubs. Any night at the Troc you’d find the
dance floor crowded with such couples as
Tyrone Power and Janet Gaynor, George
Raft and Virginia Pine, Lucille Ball and
Alexander Hall, Marlene Dietrich and
Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Joan Crawford and
Franchot Tone, Jane Wyman and Ronald
Reagan, Errol Flynn and, well you name
them. . . . The Troc is now time-worn,
termite-ridden and stands on the new Sun-
set Strip, empty; just a ghost of yesterday.
. . . There was a night club — Victor Hugo’s
— in Beverly Hills, which is part of the
night history of the town. Victor Hugo’s
didn’t last long. Somehow they couldn’t
make a go of it, although the attraction was
Harry James and his Orchestra, featuring
singer Frank Sinatra. But that was years
ago, about the time Prince Mike Romanoff
went into exile in Hollywood, giving the
town, as Jimmy Cagney put it, its only
honest phony.

I remember, I remember young Bob Hope
singing “Thanks for the Memory,” long be-
fore he had a world-wide collection of
memories. Jimmy Stewart was dating Ros-
alind Russell. The three most popular
movie stars were Snow White, Charlie
McCarthy and Shirley Temple. A child, a
cartoon, a dummy. . . . Billboards an-
nounced that Simone Simone was an ac-
tress who used the same name twice. A
foreign diplomat visiting Hollywood asked,
“What is a Lana Turner?” . . . Yes, I
remember all this and more. I remember
F. Scott Fitzgerald before he had even one
book written about him; when Myrna Loy
was the perfect wife on the screen; and
Clark Gable didn’t want to play Rhett
Butler in “Gone With the Wind.” But
best of all, I remember being told I should
have been in Hollywood in the good old
days. I’ve learned something I wish you
could remember: The present is always the
good old days. Wait and see. The End

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DIANE BAKER

Continued, from page 35

or any other leg that was handy— and care-
fully spread the carrots around the plate
with my fork, so they wouldn’t lie there
in a heap looking as though I’d left them
all. I never ate them.

Food wasn’t the only thing I was stub-
born about. I wouldn’t practice the piano
either. Mom even tried tying me to the
stool, but nothing worked. I’m kind of
sorry now. There’s nothing as romantic
as playing a piano by candlelight, espe-
cially when you’re with the boy you like.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that,
looking back, I realize now how right my
mom was about a lot of things and I wish
I’d listened to her, but I guess everybody
has to learn for themselves.

I think I’m an adult now. Sometimes it
seemed like it was going to take forever
to be twenty-one and then suddenly I
was. I’ve thought a lot about what I want
from life and I guess — well, I’ve found
what I think I want, but there are still
times when I get confused and scared —
terribly scared. Like the time I was sit-
ting on a train — we were on a publicity
tour — and although things seemed to be
working out well around me, and every-
thing was going smoothly, I found myself
saying, “Be careful, Diane, this is it.” And
I began to get filled with all kinds of
fears — like maybe I have no talent. I got
to thinking, on that train, that although
some of us kids are getting by okay now,
where will we be ten years from now?
Will people say, “She looked promising
but she didn’t move an inch?” The palms
of my hands got clammy and I started
working very hard after that.

I don’t know if I’m making myself clear.
It’s like something inside that warns you.
It’s like a conscience. At these times, I
suddenly think I’m not really getting any
place and that I have to start being some
place. I realize that I’m worrying about
material things when instead I need to get
away from people — get back to my ballet
classes — get some polish. I get that old
feeling that I have a lot to learn. It’s just
like Mom always told me.

My trouble is that maybe I’m not really
a worker. I tend to be lazy. I tend to let
myself down and then feel terrible about
it. That’s when I get those pangs and
feel a need to start all over. You can’t
waste time just thinking about what you
want to do — you have to do it. People,
today, spend too much time analyzing. You
learn through trying. So, whether I’m
doing a television show or making a movie,
I try to throw myself right into it.

I want to be a good actress. I don’t
know if I have it in me to be great, al-
though I’m never satisfied and I can look
at my work objectively and see an awful
lot of mistakes — and then improve them.

I love making pictures. I love my life
in Hollywood. When I’m free, I enjoy
leaping into a pounding surf and feeling
like I’m a part of the sea. I love beach
parties where you play a ukulele and sing.
I love the feel of warm sand, the tang of
a good hot dog, the look of a healthy tan
and a sun-burned nose. I love getting into
my car at night, especially if I’m troubled,
and driving down to Santa Monica or
Malibu. I get some classical music on the
radio, roll all the windows down for a
good strong breeze, put my foot on the
accelerator of my Hillman-Minx and I go!

It’s my life, that car. It gives me such
a wonderful sense of freedom. With it, I
suddenly have wings. My mind races as
the telephone poles fly by, like so many

wooden soldiers in the moonlight. I have
a favorite spot off Sunset Boulevard— a
rock that juts out into the ocean. I often
park there, leave the headlights on, and
sit on my rock all alone. There, with the
moonlight on the water, the breeze blow-
ing in from the sea, the pounding of the
surf, solutions to any problem I might have
come to me.

Maybe it’s a funny trait — liking to be
alone. I’m not what you’d call a mixer or a
party-goer. I can get along with people
on a big scale, but I prefer to have just
a few close friends. I don’t know if I can
explain what I mean. Like on the lot at
Twentieth, you greet everyone, hug them,
ask them about their day, but then no one
is possessive. No one holds on. You can
go to your room any time you like and
be alone. I like that.

I’m so lucky that Denny understands. Den-
nis Powers is my dearest, closest friend.
He’s a third-year student of political sci-
ence at the University of Southern Cali-
fornia. He’s also a very talented artist.
Many of his paintings are hanging in my
apartment. I adore them. He seems to
present a spiritual story in everything he
does. We met each other in high school;
that was five years ago and long before
I started acting.

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I’ll nevex forget how we met. It was
a warm September day, the kind that
makes you push damp strands of hair
back from your forehead impatiently, and
I was sitting at a table in the school
cafeteria discussing a test that was com-
ing up next period. I hadn’t studied for it
and I was feeling rather dejected. I was
wearing my yellow sweater and I kept
toying with the strand of pearls around
my neck. Suddenly, I was conscious of
someone staring at me from across the
room. I looked up from my chicken-salad
sandwich and there was Denny — tall, good-
looking, with strawberry colored hair. It
was cut in a crew-cut and looked more
like a Brillo pad than hair, but he was
adorable. He had an honest look about him.

For a week, all we did was sort of
flirt across the room. The minute I’d enter
the cafeteria, my eyes darted everywhere
until they’d find him. I’d drop my books
onto a chair and dash for the line at the
steam table. Once, I was standing right
behind him but we didn’t speak. He
ordered clam chowder — which I can’t
stand and I heard myself saying, “Clam
chowder, please.” I forgot the butter for
my rolls and he noticed! He put down his
tray, right away, and got me a pat of
butter, dropped it on the plate with my
rolls, paid his check and joined his friends
at their usual table. He was real casual,
like this was the sort of thing he always
did for dopey little girls who don’t know
which side their bread is buttered. But I
found out later that, that afternoon, he’d
asked a mutual friend who I was. There

was a school dance coming up, so I asked
this same boy to ask Dennis if he’d like
to go with me. His reply was, “I’d love
to." That night, after dinner, he phoned
and we talked for hours.

We had so much fun at the dance. All
the other girls were so envious because
Denny danced only with me. They all kind
of fell for him ’cause he was so handsome.
And when each dance ended, we’d go
over to the table, at the far end of the
dance floor, and drink punch. We had so
much fun that night.

We discovered that we both adored
sports and that Denny was great at foot-
ball and track. Besides going to all the
school activities, he introduced me to ski-
ing— even helped me choose my outfit
piece by piece. I went to his skiing club
and got in with a whole new crowd.

I guess, at the time, I was a fairly
normal teenager. I did my share of sit-
ting around the drugstore sipping Cokes,
flipping through movie magazines, dis-
cussing boys and clothes. But, I confess,
I had moods when I felt that something
bigger and more exciting was going to
happen to me and all this was kind of
silly and unimportant.

Sometimes, I’d close myself in my room
at home, fling myself across the bed,
turn the radio on, close my eyes and
dream about New York — we lived way out
in Laguna Beach, California. I’d see myself
dancing in a big ballroom in a beautiful
gown. I was always smiling, charming
and poised — something I don’t feel I’ve
really attained to this day. I longed to go
to big Broadway theaters and see all the
shows, hear an opera at the Met, visit the
United Nations. Actually, I didn’t know
too much about New York. It was just a
dream place, but I was confident that I
would go there one day and that my dream
would be fulfilled.

Denny was sweet and understanding
when I’d tell him about my dream. But
he always brought me down to earth,
speaking to me gently. I guess if my
mother had told me, I wouldn’t have lis-
tened, but when he said it, it seemed to
make sense. We still enjoy the simplest
things together. We go to coffee shops and
sit and talk. We go to a neighborhood
movie. We don’t dance much, but we
like to drive in the car and listen to
records. We both love classical music but
we enjoy the Broadway show albums too,
like “My Fair Lady” and “Sound of
Music” and “Gypsy.” Recently, I took up
sculpturing. I’ve been working on a head
and Dennis often comes up to my apart-
ment and helps me. Sometimes, he brings
his college homework and studies while I
sculpt — to music, of course. Giuseppe Di
Stefano, the Met tenor, is my favorite singer.
I don’t mean to sound stuffy or long hair.
I enjoy the young pop singers, too, but I
don’t get obsessed by them. Denny and I
both like to read, too. Right now, I enjoy
books on acting, and I adore letters— like
Thomas Wolfe’s. You learn so much about
people. You feel that you really know them.

Sometimes, people ask me why I don’t
go to many of the big parties. I guess
it’s because my favorite kinds of parties
are small, intimate ones, where everyone
talks quietly together. And I like a mixed
group that is interested in many different
things. I’ve disliked a lot of big parties
because I’ve found you can’t speak to
everyone or even talk to any one person
for very long.

I love to cook. I really do. I have a
new recipe for a tuna casserole that I’m
dying to try. I adore making big salads
with thousands of things. I cut up carrots,
celery, onions and tomatoes like crazy. I’m
mad for seasonings. I enjoy most foods,
but hate caviar. Next to eating, I like

sleeping. I always have the windows open
i wide, no matter what the weather. I love
the outdoor sounds. Especially the wind.

I’ve always chosen my own clothes. I
like simple dresses with full skirts. I can
be quite content in a blouse and skirt, or
a turtle-neck sweater, but I go to the
other extreme, too. I love to dress up.
In heels I feel ready for anything, but I
i like flats for comfort. I started wearing
lipstick, very lightly, when I was thirteen.
I still only use very little. I like hats —
only on other people. Some girls wear
! them to add height. I don’t need to do
this since I’m over five-foot-six (and
weigh 118 pounds) . I am rather indifferent
to jewelry. I have a favorite necklace of
pearls and antique gold that I always wear
when I dress up, but my dearest posses-
sion is an amethyst ring that belonged to
my great-great-grandmother. It’s too large
for me to wear and I’m not really supersti-
tious but, somehow, I always carry it for
luck, along with a silver dollar that was
given to me when I was very young.

: Sometimes very young seems so long

! ago. And when I do remember those days,
I get to thinking how I was born dqring
the great Los Angeles flood and wondering
if there’s any significance in it — because I
love water.

I was a very positive person when I was
little. Maybe stubborn or strong-willed
are better words. Anyway, my mother
tells how, when I was three, I had a tan-
trum right on the ground floor of the May
Company — that’s a big department store in
Los Angeles. I kicked my heels and banged
my head against the counter and the clerks
and lady shoppers were horrified. My
mother didn’t spank me or try to coax me
out of it or anything. She just disappeared
behind a post, warning everybody to leave
me alone. When I finally realized she was
gone I was frantic. I leaped up, wild-eyed,
screaming, “Mommy! Mommy!” I was sob-
bing so hard I could scarcely breathe. I
thought I was lost, deserted, forsaken!
Boy, I never did that again. My mother
acted cleverly, I decided later.

I was brought up with my two younger
sisters, Patricia and Cheryl. We lived in
a house in San Fernando Valley which had
a big yard full of slides and swings and
we had a boxer dog named King. Daddy’s
an automobile dealer who was a former
USC basketball and football player, and
Mom was at Paramount for a while. She
danced in the chorus of some of their big
musicals and had bit parts in several
Groucho Marx pictures. I think she looks
' just like Rita Hayworth.

When I was eight, I joined a little neigh-
borhood gang, all kids about my own age.
We had a clubhouse of our own and we
were quite exclusive. Sometimes we’d
meet as early as seven in the morning.
I can still hear those kids calling, “Diane!”
in a stage whisper under the window of
my bedroom so my mother wouldn’t hear.
Then I’d sneak out a window and join
them.

I loved playing games and was forever
writing letters to Santa Claus asking for
more. I remember some of the kids and I
went through what we later termed our
“foreign intrigue” period, which consisted
of skulking behind trees and hedges and
lamp posts. The idea was to try to get
through the block without being seen by
an adult. Once, we collected all the old
Christmas trees in the neighborhood and
made them into a big city in my backyard,
with forts and everything. I also loved
roller-skating and playing volleyball but
didn’t care much about dolls.

Sometimes we kids put on shows in the
backyard and charge a penny admission
but I don’t remember any great burning
desire to be an actress. My only great

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teenage dream was to see New York, and
that became a reality the summer I
graduated from high school.

It was my participation in a beauty con-
test that finally brought me to New York.
And it was all I hoped it would be. I re-
member, one night, going to Radio City.
For a while I just stood outside, admiring
the skyscrapers with their thousands of
sparkling eyes, set against the background
of a black sky, looking like something
straight out of Cinerama. Then I noticed
two ballet dancers— at least, that’s what
I think they were — coming out of the stage
door of the Music Hall and walking briskly
down the street, their feet turned out like
twenty minutes to four. A mounted po-
liceman looked down from his horse and
smiled at them and suddenly I felt an
overwhelming love for everything and
everybody in the city.

For two months, I stayed in New York,
with Helen and Melvyn Douglas, friends
of the family, and then I had to go back
to the Coast — back to the University of
Southern California where I had enrolled.
There, I began to take drama lessons after
class, with Estelle Harman, although I had
many different hopes and desires at that
point. One minute I was going to do some-
thing in the religious field, the next in
political science. I was, and still am, so
interested in politics that I pay my own
way to conventions and sometimes have
my own seat. One year, I was one of the
delegates at the California Federation of
Democrats. I remember I got up and spoke.
Boy, did that take courage! I was so afraid
I’d make a fool of myself. Fear. I guess
that’s one of my problems — with acting,
with everything. I’m afraid. But I did
speak.

All this time, I missed New York terribly
and my next vacation found me flying
East again. New York had won me com-
pletely. This time, I planned to stay much
longer. I got a modeling job, took an
apartment with Carla Hoffman, a hopeful
young actress, and enrolled in ballet and
dramatic classes. Life was exciting. Some-
times Carla and I talked half the night
about acting, plays, problems. And my
interest grew. I’d tell her about my par-
ents and how they wrote that they didn’t
really want me to be an actress. I couldn’t
blame them. I had never been consistent
about anything. How could they be sure
that this wasn’t just another whim? The
career I was embarking on was costly, and
I needed their financial help. They wanted
me to finish college and do something

practical. I worried about that a lot. Was
I really doing the right thing? My heart
told me yes, but I’d continue to toss and
turn in bed, at night, wondering about so
many things.

How do kids finally find their role in
life? So many of us are so mixed up, so
insecure. I’ve always been attracted to the
insecure ones. They have no one to reach
out to, to hold onto. I believe I have God,
which is within myself, but those who
have lost their faith need someone.

There is a cult today known as beatniks.
I think that I know what the word means
but I can’t define it. These kids are
criticized and satirized but, frankly, I think
that they are doing more than some people
with ordinary jobs. At least they are creat-
ing. And they go in for deep discussions.
They’re thinking. Many kids don’t know
how to think any more. That word should
be painted on every blackboard in every
school — think!

Although I loved visiting the United Na-
tions, one of the most thrilling things
about New York was the theater. I saw
Julie Harris in “The Lark” on Broadway
and then in the film “East of Eden.” I
adored her. As a matter of fact, it was
a scene I re-enacted from that very pic-
ture months later, that resulted in my
being signed by Buddy Adler for
Twentieth Century-Fox.

About three weeks after I’d seen “The
Lark,” I saw the play “The Diary of Anne
Frank.” And I thought how I would love
to play Anne on the screen. I had a sort of
a premonition about that picture. 1
couldn’t get it out of my mind. I just
knew, somehow, that I was going to be
in it.

I remember sitting in the Stage Deli-
catessen one rainy night, about this time of
year, with a young doctor friend. I was
eating a ham sandwich when suddenly I
couldn’t stand it any longer — this feeling
that something was about to happen. I put
down my sandwich, pushed back my Coke,
and announced, dramatically, “I’ve got to
go back to the Coast!”

My friend choked on a mouthful of cof-
fee. “You don’t mean right now?”

“Yes, tomorrow — tonight. As soon as
possible!” I cried. When I’m excited my
voice goes higher and I must have sounded
like an LP set at the wrong speed. The
doctor leaned across the table and touched
my forehead with the back of his hand.

“I’m not feverish, I feel fine!” I insisted.
“I’ve just got to get back to Hollywood

to do ‘The Dairy of Anne Frank’!” Poor
man, he must have really thought I’d
flipped my lid.

But I did go back to the Coast and I did
make “Diary.” I didn’t play Anne; Millie
Perkins did that. But I did get the part of
her sister. On the plane, going back, I
had read that George Stevens was looking
for someone and right there and then I
wrote him a letter. It was the only letter,
he told me later, that he got. Mine was a
small role but I loved it. I was now in
movies. I was on my way.

t^ven today I’m scared and nervous when
I make a picture and when I’m nervous
it shows. I strain, become tense, I clench
my hands. When I watched “The Killers”
on TV — that was a show I taped — I was
so tense I was hunched over. Bent double.

I remember that while we were filming
“Journey to the Center of the Earth,” I’d
always try to take a walk before we’d
shoot — to calm down. I’d try to get away
from people. Some place where it was
quiet, and maybe just sit. A good way to
calm your nerves is to examine something
closely. A flower or a book. You think,
“Isn’t that interesting?” You examine the
quality of it, the size of the type. Or you
try to absorb yourself in an object. It
takes you out of yourself. I learned this
from reading about a form of Japanese
religion known as Shinto. When the
Japanese have guests, the head of the
house will bring in something beautiful —
perhaps a vase — and everyone sits and
studies it and then they discuss it and, in
this way, with no awkwardness or self-
consciousness, they slowly begin to learn
about one another.

Most American teenagers wouldn’t use
a vase to help them over a first meeting
— unless it were full of popcorn! But they
should try to learn to concentrate on the
other person to take them out of them-
selves. It isn’t easy but it’s worth a try.

There are lots of things I wish others
would try. Instead of depending so much
on cocktails and tranquilizers, I wish peo-
ple could have stimulating discussions —
give love, and care what really happens to
one another.

I think it’s the people who think they
know everything, who turn a deaf ear to
others’ thoughts and opinions that cause
all the stalemates in the world. I guess
they just never grew up. Never learned
to listen to their moms — to other people.
Instead of pushing carrots around on their
plates, they push people. Instead of having
tantrums on the floor of the May Company,
they have them on the floor of the U.N.

And talking of listening to mothers, I
thought I should mention that my parents
and I are very close now. And I often wish
it had been this way always. They’re so
proud of me and they tell me so and it
makes me feel all warm and glowing inside.
Like recently, when I was in New York in
December to help promote “Journey to the
Center of the Earth,” which I made with
James Mason and Pat Boone, my dad as-
sured me he would take care of everything
at the Hollywood end. I was in the midst •
of giving up my apartment, out there, and
looking for a new one. Dad called me and
said, “You just do what you have to do
in New York and Mom and I will take care
of things out here.” It made me feel good
and . . . well — loved. As I hung up the
phone, I wished I could have hugged Mom
and Dad. I thought, “Maybe I’m really an
adult now, like my parents.” My parents
are so wise and understanding — that’s what
I think really being an adult means. I guess
they’ve always been that way but I didn’t
really know it till now. Maybe it takes one
adult to know another. The End J

BE SURE TO SEE DIANE BAKER IN 20TH CENTURY-
fox’s “journey to the center of the earth.”

WHO HO YOU WANT TO IIKAH ABOUT?

1 want to read stories about (list movie, TV or recording stars):

(1).

(2).

(3) .

(4) .

(1).

(2).

ACTOR

ACTRESS

0).

(2).

(3) .

(4) .

The features I like best in this issue of PHOTOPLAY are:

(3)

(4)

Name Age.

Address.

Paste this ballot on a postcard and send it to Reader's
Poll, Box 1374, Grand Central Station, New York 17, N.Y.

3-60

ELVIS PRESLEY

Continued from page 21

have plenty in common. It’s strange how
you wonder about these things after so
long.

I want a quiet home-coming, like any
other soldier . . . just a small get-together
with my friends and family in Memphis.
I don’t want any fuss or a brass band wait-
ing for me. Other soldiers don’t get one,
so why should I?

I’m looking forward to seeing the street
where I used to live . . . going to a neigh-
borhood movie . . . understanding, again,
what folks in the street are saying . . .
eating in my favorite restaurant . . . play-
ing ball with the old gang again . . . even
getting to know the new people who moved
into our neighborhood while I was away. . .
seeing all the many little things I remem-
ber about my home . . . and, of course, the
usual Saturday night date. Yes, these are
the things I’m looking forward to.

Do I want to marry? I’m flooded with
letters from so many people asking me.
Sure I do.

People have said, “Don’t you think you
could spoil your happiness by not getting
married?” Well, I do want to marry . . .
but maybe not just yet. The reason why I
don’t expect to get married right now is
because I believe life would be too hard for
two people in love.

I’ve taken out many girls — fans too. Why
shouldn’t I go out with fans if I like them
individually?

There have been many girls who’ve said
to me, “If you can’t marry me now, I
can’t wait for you.” I don’t think that’s
the right attitude. If a girl can’t wait for
you, you don’t want her anyway. Find a
girl you love and want to marry and, if
she really cares for you, she won’t want to
hurt your career. That’s how I see it. I
believe that if two people are really in
love, they should marry, come what may.
But when there are difficulties, a girl must
be prepared to wait and understand. If a
girl gets over-anxious and marries some-
one else — it has happened to me — the only
thing to say is: “Oh well, that’s how the
ball bounces.”

I took girls home to meet my mother be-
cause she wanted to meet the people I
liked. And the girls wanted to see how
young people lived in the Deep South. I
don’t mind whether girls are redheads,
blondes or brunettes as long as they are
truly feminine.

A boy once wrote to me saying that girls
gave him a rough time and he wondered
if it ever happened to me. Yes, it has — but
a girl doesn’t want a man she can lead
around by the ears. If the man makes it
clear that he loves her, but not so much
that he can’t get along without her, then
he’s right. If a girl starts making excuses
when I ring her for a date, I don’t bother
any more. The more you try to get them to
like you — the less they do. You can’t force
love on anyone. I learned that a long
time ago.

I don’t like sophisticated girls who pre-
tend to be something they aren’t. The girl
I like looks up to me as a man, but I guess
most guys feel like this, don’t they?

Maybe it will feel strange, at first, when
I take out a girl back home again. But,
then, a lot of things feel strange after so
long. But it’s good to be going home . . .
I’m crossing the days off my calendar.
I can’t wait. — ELVIS

AFTER HIS RELEASE FROM SERVICE, ELVIS IS
TO MAKE “G.I. BLUES” FOR PAR. BE SURE TO
CATCH HIS OLD FILMS WHICH ARE BEING RE-
RELEASED. HEAR ELVIS SING ON RCA VICTOR.

Let’s talk frankly about

4 internal
cleanliness

Day before yesterday, many women
hesitated to talk about the douche
even to their best friends, let alone to
a doctor or druggist.

Today, thank goodness, women are
beginning to discuss these things freely
and openly. But— even now— many
women don’t realize what is involved
in treating “the delicate zone."

They don’t ask. Nobody tells them.
So they use homemade solutions
which may not be completely effective,
or kitchen-type antiseptics which may
be harsh or inflammatory.

It’s time to talk frankly about in-
ternal cleanliness. Using anything that
comes to hand . . .“working in the
dark”. . . is practically a crime against
yourself, in this modern day and age.

Here are the facts: tissues in “the
delicate zone” are very tender. Odors
are very persistent. Your comfort and

well-being demand a special prepara-
tion for the douche. Today there is
such a preparation.

This preparation is far more effec-
tive in antiseptic and germicidal action
than, old-fashioned homemade solu-
tions. It is far safer to delicate tissues
than other liquid antiseptics for the
douche. It cleanses, freshens, elimi-
nates odor, guards against chafing, pro-
motes confidence as nothing else can.

This is modern woman’s way to
internal cleanliness. It is the personal
antiseptic for women, made specifi-
cally for “the delicate zone.” It is
called Zonite®. Complete instructions
for use come in every package. In
cases of persistent discharge, women
are advised to see their doctors.

Millions of women already consider
Zonite as important a part of their
grooming as their bath. You owe it
to yourself to try Zonite soon.

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JUSTINE AND BOB

Continued from page 57

thought she looked so pretty, whirling
around in a cute blue cotton dress. He
told her he’d also admired her soft, blond
hair and big blue eyes. A little while later,
he walked over and asked her to dance.
He said it had taken courage — he hadn’t
been sure what she’d say.

She wanted to accept — to dance with him
— but her dances, that day, had already
been promised to another boy, one she’d
been dancing with on the show for quite
a few weeks. But he didn’t give up, she
remembered, smiling to herself. He’d
asked her the next show . . . and the
next . . and finally she said, “Yes, I’d

love to.” And she found he was fun and
that they danced beautifully and easily
together. In fact, they danced so beau-
tifully that viewers started noticing them
and looking out each day for them.

It’s funny how things happen, some-
times. It turned out they were practic-
ally neighbors — she from Philadelphia and
he from nearby Wilmington. Yet they
had to go miles away to New York to
meet. And that’s how it all began . . .

Two weeks after their first meeting on
the Bandstand, Bob asked her out. They
didn’t do anything special — just went to
a neighborhood movie together. T'hen,
as they sat there watching the picture, she
felt Bob take her hand and suddenly she
knew she didn’t mind — not like she did
with some boys.

They were together constantly after that
first date. It was summer and there was
no school, so every day they’d go to the
studio and dance, and, after the show, stop
off at their favorite drugstore for a soda.
They were so happy just being together.

About a month later, Bob asked her to
go steady. She didn’t say yes right away,
she was afraid — she’d never gone steady
with a boy before. But three weeks later
she agreed and, on August 3, 1957 — she’d
always remember that date — Bob gave her
a ring. . . .

It was a warm, clear summer’s day, with
just a hint of a breeze in the air, and
they decided to take a walk. They were
strolling along, hand in hand, laughing
and joking with each other, when sud-
denly Bob edged Justine over toward a
jewelry store window.

“Look!” he said, pointing to a tray of
rings. “Guess you’d like to have one
of those one day?”

“Oh — yes,” she sighed. “But I don’t
expect I will until I’m much older.”

“No?” he said, a curious smile spreading
over his face as though he had a secret.

And with that, he clutched her hand
and pulled her into the store saying, “Go
on, pick out any ring you want — any one!”

She was so excited she couldn’t move
or speak but was just able to move one
finger enough to point to a gorgeous
marcasite ring on the bottom shelf
of the counter. Bob asked the assistant
for the ring, and, as he carefully put it
on her finger, she noticed his hand was
shaking a little. And, at that moment,
she quite clearly remembered wondering if
they’d always be this happy. Then,
when he kissed her, right in the middle
of the store, the wonder turned to fright,
an inexplicable, illogical fright.

Her parents were very pleased about
her decision to go steady. They liked
Bob and welcomed him into their home,
p Soon, he began to go over there almost
eveiy day. He and Justine would sit
around and talk or play records or even

would stay with them a while. She
seemed to get along so well with Bob.
Then, they’d go off to the show. Sometimes,
though, Bob would ask Justine to his
house because his folks liked her, too,
and welcomed her there.

Six months later, Bob gave Justine an-
other ring — a nicer one, he said. It was
a pearl ring with a tiny diamond on either
side. She was radiant with happiness by
this time and told Bob, one day, “It’s be-
coming more and more like a wonderful
dream.” The show had become something
very, very special now, too. Letters poured
in praising them.

But then, one day, that dream ended
— suddenly and without warning. That
day, as soon as she opened the door for
Bob, she knew something was terribly
wrong. It was as though it were written
all over his face; he looked so downcast.

“What’s the matter, Bob?” she asked
quietly, afraid of his answer.

“Nothing . . . it’s nothing,” he shrugged.

“Tell me,” she urged. “We’ve . . .
we’ve never had any secrets from each
other. I want to know.”

And so he told her. “There’s an illness
in the family,” he explained, shuffling
one foot nervously back and forth. “I’ll
have to spend all my time in Wilmington
from now on ... to work ... to help out.”

And, as he spoke, the only thoughts
that raced through her mind were . . .
there’ll be no more dancing with him on
the show . . no more sodas at the drug-
store afterward ... no more kids writ-
ing, “We think you’re great. Keep up
the good work . . .”

“You stay with the show,” Bob was
saying. “You’ll find someone else to dance
with. I know you will.”

She didn’t answer, she just stood there,
staring at him, not wanting to speak for
fear she would start to cry. Finally, she
blurted out, “No! I won’t stay with the
show. I’ll stay at home, too.”

And so, in October of ’58, Justine Cor-
relli and Bob Clayton disappeared
from the television screen. Kids
turned on their TV sets and waited —
“Maybe they’re on vacation?” they
thought — and waited some more. No Jus-
tine. No Bob. Where did they go? What
were they doing now?

Bob was in Wilmington selling shoes.
Justine got a job in Philly selling souve-
nirs. But what mattered most was that,
this way, they had time for each other
. . . they could still be together. Sometimes
they’d go to a neighborhood drugstore,
put a dime in the juke box, and pretend
they were back in New York with the
Bandstand, dancing with the show, pre-
tending that those who watched them,
still loved them. Then they’d open their
eyes and realize it was just a dream — a
bad dream.

But then the bad dream ended as abrupt-
ly as the good one had. The sickness
in Bob’s family became a thing of the past
and, strangely enough, right around the
same time they both received telephone
calls which astounded them. Someone
wanted them to make a record together
— seemed the people who watched the
show hadn’t forgotten them, they were
clamoring for them to return. They could
hardly believe their ears. But it was
true. That “someone” was Silvio Scerbo
of Fransil Records and he had a song
for them — “Drive-in Movie.”

After practicing together like mad, they
finally cut the disc.

“It isn’t awfully good,” Justine re-
membered saying, when she first heard it.

“Don’t worry,” Bob reassured her. “After
all, it’s only our first. We have to start
somewhere.”

But the kids who’d been waiting for it,

thought it was great. So great that almost I
as soon as it came out, agents and pro- 3
ducers were hurrying to book tours for ;
them, to have them appear at proms and |
benefits.

So they began dancing together again
. . . this time to their very own record.

Justine’s mother always went along as
chaperone, following them to Ohio, New
York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and
Delaware. Life was like a fairy-tale. They
had so much fun on the tours.

Justine never forgot the time when her
shoe fell off right in the middle of a dance
and she had to dance in her stocking feet —
right in front of hundreds of people. Yes,
a lot of funny things happened to them . . .
but they shared the fun — together.

Then came the terrible night when they
were appearing at a heart fund benefit.
Out of nowhere, a rumor started. An
ugly rumor. Just a few minutes before
the performance was due to start, an eld-
erly stranger walked up to Justine and
said, “Why, you’re only a kid! How come
your folks let you run around the coun-
try with that guy? Don’t you know what
everyone’s saying about you?”

Justine stood there, not knowing what
to say, choking back a lump which seemed
to be welling up in her throat. Then,
suddenly, not waiting to hear any more,
she ran backstage to her dressing room, f
threw herself on the couch, crying.

Then she felt an arm close around her
and a soothing hand stroke her hair.
“What’s the matter, honey?” a voice said.
And she looked up and saw that her
mother had sat down next to her.

“A man ... a man said I was . . .” she
began and blurted out the whole story.

Her mother kissed her gently and told
her quietly, “If you know and I know
that you’ve done nothing wrong, then
that’s all that matters. The rumor will
die down in time.”

“No it won’t ... no it won’t,” she sobbed,
and reached out for her mascot, a little
bride -doll she always carried with her,
and hugged it close to her.

She tried not to let Bob see that any-
thing was wrong, when she went on stage
a few minutes later. But she could tell by
the way he kept glancing at her that he
sensed something.

After the show, he came around to her
dressing room. He found her sitting on i
a stool, hugging her doll, looking quite
forlorn. He ran over to her and lifted
her up from the stool, into his arms.
“What’s wrong?” he said. “Tell me, Justine,
tell me what happened.”

And she told him.

“Maybe we can get married. That will
stop it,” he suggested.

She looked up at him and her eyes
were sparkling. “Yes, Bob. Yes . . .”

Then, as they stood there, clinging to
each other, the door opened and her
mother walked in.

“We’re . . . we’re going to get married,”
Justine cried out.

But her mother didn’t smile. In fact
she looked very solemn and serious.
“Come over here, both of you,” she said
quietly. “I want to tell you something.”

And, as they stood beside her, she said,
“That’s wonderful. That’s really wonder-
ful, but it’s no solution, because you’re
too young — both of you. I like you, Bob,
you know that . . . but wait a little
longer, just go on dancing as you have
been doing, and I know the rumor will
die. And then, maybe one day you can
get married.”

“No.” cried Justine, and tears began to
run down her cheeks. “I can’t keep tour-
ing with people thinking things like that.

It’s just not right. Please, Mama — take me

PHOTOPLAY FASHIONS

Honest, you can dress
like a movie star, too

Simplicity Printed Patterns shown on pages
42-45 are available at local stores everywhere,
or, to order by mail, send money, size and pat-
tern number to Simplicity Pattern Co., Inc.,
Dept. PH, 200 Madison Ave., Hew York 16,N.Y.

Tll«“ lloloro Simplicity 3357; Junior Misses'
and Misses’ sizes 11-18, 60tf. Crestwood, 5079-
69-89, 100% wool, 54" wide.

Till* Ov<*l*skir( Simplicity 3262: Junior
Misses’ and Misses’ sizes 11-18, 60<*. Dress:
Stoffel organdy, Qual. 252, white, 35/36" wide.
Overskirt: Stoffel cotton batiste, Qual. 4109, black,
39" wide.

The Tunie S implicity 3349; Junior Misses’
and Misses’ sizes 11-18, 60^. Andover, Sharkskin
Prints, Patt. 738, H. 41/42" wide.

The Blouson Simplicity 2896 ; Junior Misses’
and Misses’ sizes 11-18, 50^. Heller Jersey, “Ora-
cle,” white — 80% Orlon/20% wool, 52/54" wide.

ACCESSORIES

The following merchandise shown on pages 42
to 45 can be purchased at most better stores
across the country. For further buying infor-
mation, write the addresses listed below:

The lloloro:

hat Madcaps,

28 West 39th Street. New York, N. Y.

gloves Wear-Right,

244 Madison Ave., New York. N. Y.

bag Calderon,

389 Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y.

jewelry Coro,

47 West 34th Street, New York, N. Y.

The Overskirl:

cloves Ben Berger,

244 Madison Ave., New York, N. Y.

jewelry Accessocraft,

389 Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y.

bag Eugenie Buchner,

347 Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y.

The Tunic:

CLOVES Wear-Right,

244 Madison Ave.. New York, N. Y.

jewelry Cadoro,

389 Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y.

The lllouson:

bag Roger Van S.,

10 West 32nd Street, New York, N. Y.

cloves Ben Berger,

244 Madison Ave., New York, N. Y.

jewelry Richelieu,

393 Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y.

home right away. I want to go home.”

And so they went home.

But going home didn’t solve the prob-
lem. Justine’s a shy, sweet girl who can
be easily hurt and she refused to have
anything more to do with the tour, the
record, or even the Bandstand. Bob took
the opposite attitude. He shrugged the
whole thing off, saying it was just a silly
rumor that would fade with the wind. But
she couldn’t forget. She finally reached
a point where she was so miserable, she
told Bob not to come over to the house
any more. She didn’t want to see him —
ever again. She wouldn’t even talk to him
on the telephone. Somehow, she felt, he
never would understand how hurt and
humiliated she was. Maybe a boy can’t
understand these things.

And so they parted.

Then Photoplay heard about their sep-
aration and decided to do something about
it. We found out it was soon to be
Justine’s seventeenth birthday and that
her mother was planning a party, inviting
all of Justine’s close friends. Immediately,
we called Mrs. Correlli and asked if Pho-
toplay might attend, since we were plan-
ning a special surprise for Justine.

“I’d love to have you,” came the reply.
“And don’t forget . . . it’s Friday at nine
o’clock.”

Friday came . . .

Justine was so nervous (even though
she knew nothing about the surprise). In
fifteen minutes, she thought, they’ll all
be here — all her friends. Was her hair
in place? Lipstick on? Seams straight?
She ran down to the living room to
make sure everything was ready. As she
sat on the floor, hunting through her
records, trying to make a selection, she
came across “Drive-In Movie.” A little
pang went through her heart and she
couldn’t resist the temptation of placing it
on the turntable. “No, I mustn’t think
about Bob now,” she told herself firmly. “I
can’t be miserable on my birthday — it’s
not fair to Mom or my friends.”

But, as she sat listening to the record,
she just couldn’t think of anything else
. . . anything except Bob and the show
and all their wonderful times together.
Nothing, she was sure, would ever be
the same.

Suddenly the doorbell rang, interrupting
her thoughts. “Golly, it’s nine o’clock al-
ready!” she cried. “Have I been sitting
here that long?” She jumped up, shut
off the record player and, taking a fast
peek in the mirror, to make sure she
looked all right, she ran to the door. Be-
fore she could even open it, all her friends
were chorusing, “Happy Birthday!” And,
one by one, they filed into the living
room, piling all the gifts on the desk
chair.

She became so busy, started to have
such fun, that she didn’t hear the door-
bell ring until her mother, who was pre-
paring more food in the kitchen, called
out, “Open the door, Justine. Someone
keeps ringing.”

She still didn’t know about her Photo-
play surprise.

And, as she went to the door, she won-
dered who it could be. “I’m sure every-
one’s here,” she thought to herself.

Then, when she opened the door, she
just stood there, dumfounded, unable
to say a word. There, with a Photoplay
escort, stood Bob Clayton. She couldn’t
believe her eyes. She gave herself a
little pinch to make sure she wasn’t
dreaming. And Bob laughed. Then he
walked in, kissed her very gently on the
cheek and handed her the gift he’d brought.

“This really is a happy birthday for me
now,” Justine whispered, as she squeezed
Bob’s hand tightly and led him into the
living room. The End

WAIST- IN

Gently yet firmly will whittle your
waist. Tuck in tummy too. White
breathable feathernap — adjustable
supporters. Sizes 22-36, $2.95.

What’s on tonight?

to see the best! Look for

these new pictures

at your favorite theater

Suddenly, Last Summer Columbia

If you enjoy shivering at the movies, but the regulation
kind of chiller seems a little bit childish, then here’s a high-
brow horror picture for you. Its monster looks like a bright,
charming blue-blooded lady, but the way Katharine Hepburn
plays her she’s a monster for sure. Or maybe you belong to
the “Liz Taylor can’t act school? Then you’ll be surprised
at the emotional power Liz puts into another traditional hor-
ror-movie character, the heroine who is in terrible danger
and who has been put into a mental hospital because she
insists on telling a fantastic story about the death of Kath-
arine’s son. Now we need a hero to try rescuing the girl —
Liz — and this is Montgomery Clift, a neuro-surgeon who
isn t so sure his beautiful patient is insane ( at left, top) . Both
the stars and the director. Joseph L. Mankiewicz, have a very
difficult job in adapting this Tennessee Williams play, but do
it well. The real climax — and it’s a shocker — is the story of
what really happened last summer. It must be brought out
in talk, and that throws the burden on the two leading ac-
tresses. Liz bears up nobly, though she isn’t quite in Katie’s
league. adult

. , „ , , „ , 20th; cinemascope.

Journey to the Center of the Earth DE LLXe color

The delightful adventure yarns of Jules Verne, the science-
fiction pioneer, make wonderful movie material and this one,
done in the same tongue-in-cheek, all-in-fun manner as
“Around the World in 80 Days,” is fun. In fact, James
Mason, Pat Boone and their fellow adventurers are the only
people likely to be completely serious about their expedition.
The 19th-Century atmosphere is kept up very properly and
quaintly while the geology professor and his earnest young
student get ready for their junket down the crater of an
extinct volcano and through the earth’s insides. Yes, there
are four songs for Pat. and there’s a love interest for each
hero. Diane Baker’s the sweet, pert girl Pat leaves behind,
and Arlene Dahl’s the sprightly Scandinavian lady who in-
sists on going along. And you can’t blame her. considering
all the excitement we find. The settings are really wild! —
caves, tunnels, rivers, even an underground ocean. family

Who Was That Lady? COLUMBIA

Probably no husband, who was caught kissing the wrong
lady, ever offered his wife such a crazy explanation as the
one Tony Curtis gives Janet Leigh. But then, the results of
the family fight usually aren't as funny as all the excitement
that Tony’s fib gets him into. To do him justice, it’s actu-
ally his over-imaginative pal. Dean Martin (at left, bottom,
with Tony and Janet), who dreams up the story that Tony
isn't merely an assistant professor at Columbia University
in New York; lie’s an undercover agent for the F.B.I.! It’s a
pleasure to see how Tony’s all-around talents blossom with
each picture he makes. He has really turned into a sharp
comedian. But Janet keeps step with him nicely. And the
movie figures that it has license — the genuine Curtis mar-
riage license, that is — to make the love scenes extra-warm.

FAMILY

A DOCTOR’S FRANK
ANSWERS ABOUT

Our Man in Havana Columbia;

CINEMASCOPE

Now it’s spy melodramas that are in
for some kidding, and here’s a cast of
real experts to do the job. Alec Guinness
is head man, a mild English salesman
with a modest job in Cuba and a teen-
aged daughter (Jo Morrow) to support.
So he agrees to work for the British Se-
cret Service — a madly inefficient outfit,
according to this movie. Noel Coward is
hilariously dead-pan as the agent who
hires Alec, and Ernie Kovacs is a howl.
But the picture just hasn’t the sock you’d
expect, what with that cast. family

The Bridal Path K.INCSLEY-UNION

A couple of years back, husky and
good-looking Bill Travers made a hit in
“Wee Geordie,” and now he follows
through in another British comedy with
a Scottish setting. On the island where
farmer Bill lives, eligible girls are scarce,
but his wife-hunting expedition on the
mainland brings him nothing but trou-
ble, with the whole police force after
him. Any time the story starts trying too
hard for its laughs, you can always look
at the backgrounds. The islands and
Highlands of Scotland are perfectly
beautiful, in a wild sort of way. family

The Gene Krupa Story Columbia

Chief points of interest in this
biography-with-music are: (1) plenty of
lively jazz, mostly swing or Chicago
style; (2 ) a chance to check up on young
players’ progress. Nothing sensational is
done with the familiar obscurity-success-
disaster-comeback plot. Acting away
earnestly, Sal Mineo looks more mature
than ever before — but still not old
enough for this tough role. Jimmy Dar-
ren comes off better, drawing your sym-
pathy as the ever-loyal pal, and we won-
dered why Susan Kohner didn’t give up
on Mineo and settle for Darren. adult

The Bramble Bush warners

Tsk-tsk — those naughty New England
towns! Doctor Richard Burton’s pretty
seaside home town is a statistical marvel.
In just a few weeks, he encounters:
abortion, adultery, alcoholism, barbit-
urates addiction, blackmail, dirty photo-
graphs, illegitimacy, mercy killing . . .
well, maybe we skipped a few. This beats

the “Peyton Place” record in quantity —
but not quality. Barbara Rush and Tom
Drake, Angie Dickinson and Jack Car-
son are mixed up in things, too. adult

Jack the Ripper paramount

An old horror-movie pal is back again
- — the mysterious fiend who actually did
prowl around London in the 1880’s,
carving up fancy ladies. While this ver-
sion of the familiar old story is clumsy
and amateurish in places, it does offer
lots of blooood and some nice, creepy
gaslight-era atmosphere. We found Lee
Patterson an attractive newcomer, even
though he has to play the part of a New
York cop and is dragged into things
rather implausibly. adult

Solomon and Sheba ^.a.; technirama,

TECHNICOLOR

When you see that title, you take it
for granted that the big screen’s going
to be jammed with color and action, ro-
mance and religious sentiment. And
you’re not disappointed, either in the
battle between the Israelites and the
Egyptians, or in the love scenes between
Yul Brynner and Gina Lollobrigida.
Yul. who stepped into the role of King
Solomon after Tyrone Power’s death, is
one of the few actors who looks right at
home in costume. And Gina — wow! adult

Behind The Great Wall CONTINENTAL;

TOTALSCOPE, DE LUXE COLOR,
AROMARAMA

On a fascinating trip to China, you see
more than just scenery, though most of
that is breath-taking. Without going in
for political comments, the movie looks
into the lives of the people and points
out the contrast between the old ways
and the new spirit of Red China. The
AromaRama process, wafting different
smells through the theater, doesn’t real-
ly contribute very much. family

The Gazebo M-G-M; CINEMASCOPE

Murder-suspense tales take a gentle
ribbing in this rattle-brained farce, all
about a nervous TV writer-director with
a killing on his conscience — and a body
buried in his backyard. As our frenzied
hero, Glenn Ford happily teams up
again with Debbie Reynolds. She’s the
wife whose good name was threat-

( Continued )

LOVE

and

MARRIAGE

There are some questions a woman can’t dis-
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are some questions she can’t put into words.
They’re too delicate. And, there are some she
may be afraid to ask. Yet, her happiness, the
happiness of her marriage and family may
depend upon whether she gets the answers
she so desperately needs.

If you are one of the millions of wives bur-
dened with the unanswered question, the
unresolved problem, you will find welcome

help in THE MODERN BOOK OF MAR-
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Dr. Lena Levine has drawn upon the most
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psychiatrist and marriage counselor.

ANSWERS TO BRIDES'

MOST INTIMATE QUESTIONS

Dr. Levine has not neglected the bride in her
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are the most frequent questions brides have
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They are typical of the questions brides every-
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STREET.

CITY. ..

STATE

MOVIES Continued

CASTS

OF CURRENT PICTURES

BRAMBLE BUSH, THE — Warners. Directed
by Daniel Petrie: Guy, Richard Burton; Mar,
Barbara Rush; Bert, Jack Carson; Fran, Angie
Dickinson; Stew Schaeffer, James Dunn; Parker
Welk, Henry Jones; Larry, Tom Drake; Dr. Kel-
sey, Frank Conroy; Sam McFic, Carl Benton
Reid.

BRIDAL PATH, THE — Kingsley-Union. Di-
rected by Frank Launder: Ewan McEwan, Bill
Travers; Katie, Fiona Clyne; Siona, Bernadette
O’ Farrell; Isobel, Dilys Laye; Sergeant Bruce,
George Cole; Constable Alec, Gordon Jackson;
Neil, Vincent Winter; Kirsty, Elizabeth Camp-
bell.

CAS FI McCALL — Warners. Directed by Joseph
Pevney: Cash McCall, James Garner; Lory Aus-
ten, Natalie Wood; Maude 'Kcnnard, Nina Foch;
Grant Austen, Dean Jagger; Winston Conzvay,
E. G. Marshall; Gil Clark, Henry Jones; Will
Atherson, Otto Kruger; General Danvers, Ro-
land Winters; Harrison Glenn, Edward C. Platt.

GAZEBO, THE — M-G-M. Directed by George
Marshall: Elliott Nash, Glenn Ford; Nell Nash,
Debbie Reynolds; Harlow Edison, Carl Reiner;
Matilda, Doro Merande; Mr. Thorpe, John Mc-
Giver; Mrs. Chandler, Mabel Albertson.

GENE KRUPA STORY, THE— Columbia. Di-
rected by Don Weis: Gene Krupa, Sal Mineo;
Eddie Sirota, James Darren; Ethel Maguire,
Susan Kohner; Gloria Corregio, Yvonne Craig;
Dorissa Dinell, Susan Oliver; Gene’s Father,
John Bleifer; Gene’s Mother, Celia Lovsky; Red
Nichols, Himself; Tommy Dorsey, Bobby Troup.

JACK THE RIPPER — Paramount. Directed by
Robert Baker and Monty Berman: Sam Lowry,
Lee Patterson; Inspector O’Neill, Eddie Byrne;
Anne Ford, Betty McDowall; Sir David Rogers,
Ewen Solon; Dr. Tranter, John leMesurier;
Kitty Knoivles, Barbara Burke.

JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF THE
EARTH — 20th. Directed by Henry Levin: Sir
Oliver Lindenbrook, James Mason; Alec Mc-
Ezven, Pat Boone; Jenny, Diane Baker; Mrs.
Goeteborg , Arlene Dahl; Hans, Peter Ronson;
Count Saknussem, Thayer David; Prof. Goete-
borg, Ivan Triesault; Saknussem’ s Groom, Robert
Adler.

NEVER SO FEW — M-G-M. Directed bv John
Sturges: Capt. Tom Reynolds, Frank Sinatra;
Carla Vesari, Gina Lollobrigida; Capt. Grey
Travis, Peter Lawford; Bill Ringa, Steve Mc-
Queen; Capt. Danny De Mortimer. Richard John-
son; Nikko Regas, Paul Henreid; Gen. Sloan,
Brian Donlevy; Sgt. Jim Norby, Dean Jones;
Sgt. John Danforth, Charles Bronson; Nautaung,
Philip Ahn; Col. Fred Parkson, Robert Bray;
Margaret Fitch, Kipp Hamilton; Col. Reed, John
Hoyt; Capt. Alofson, Whit Bissell; Mike Island,
Richard Lupino; Billingsly, Aki Aleong.

OUR MAN IN HAVANA — Columbia. Directed
by Carol Reed: James Wormold, Alec Guinness;
Milly, Jo Morrow; Hawthorne, Noel Coward;
Dr. Hasselbacher , Burl Ives; Captain Segura,
Ernie Kovacs; “C,” Ralph Richardson; Beatrice,
Maureen O’Hara.

SOLOMON AND SHEBA— U. A. Directed by
King Vidor: Solomon, Yul Brynner; Magda,
Queen of Sheba, Gina Lollobrigida; Adonijah,
George Sanders; Abishag, Marisa Pavan.

STORY ON PAGE ONE, THE— 20th. Directed
by Clifford Odets: Jo Morris, Rita Hayworth;
Larry Ellis, Gig Young; Victor Santini, Anthony
Franciosa; Edward Ritter, Biff Elliot; Mrs.
Brown, Katherine Squire; Mrs. Ellis, Mildred
Dunnock; Mike Morris. A1 Ryder; Avis, Carol
Seflinger; Stanley, Sanford Meisner; Nordau,
Robert Burton; Alice, Myrna Fahey; Judge
Carey, Raymond Greenleaf; Judge Neilsen,
Hugh Griffith; Detective Kelly, Tom Greenway;
Morrie Goetz, Leo Penn.

SUDDENLY, LAST SUMMER— M-G-M. Di-
rected by Joseph L. Mankiewicz: Catherine FI oi-
ly, Elizabeth Taylor; Mrs. Venable, Katharine
Hepburn; Dr. Cukrowicz, Montgomery Clift; Dr.
Hockstader, Albert Dekker; Mrs. Holly, Merce-
des McCambridge; George Holly, Gary Raymond.

TIGER BAY — Continental. Directed by J. Lee
Thompson: S uperintendent Graham, John Mills;
Korcliinsky , Horst Buchholz; Gillie, Hayley
Mills; Anya, Yvonne Mitchell; Mrs. Philips,
Megs Jenkins; Christine, Shari.

WHO WAS THAT LADY?— Columbia. Di-
rected by George Sidney: David Wilson, Tony
Curtis; Michael Haney, Dean Martin; Ann Wil-
son, Janet Leigh; Harry Powell, James Whit-
more; Bob Doyle, John Mclntire; Gloria Coogle,
Barbara Nichols; Parker, Larry Keating;
Orenov, Larry Storch; Bclka, Simon Oakland;
Florence Coogle, Joi Lansing; Tattoo Artist,
Snub Pollard.

ened by the dead blackmailer. And it’s
her idea to put the little pavilion (yep,
that's the gazebo ) in the backyard. The
story was on the stage first, so you might
find it a little gabby, but it’s good for a
bunch of laughs, too. family

Tiger Hay continental

When it comes to suspense, nobody
can beat the British, if they really set
their minds to it. So, go out of your way
to see this tingling item. Hayley Mills is
completely unself-conscious and utterly
charming as the eleven-year-old tomboy
of Tiger Bay, a waterfront slum section
in Wales. Through tricky hut still be-
lievable plot twists, she becomes the
loyal friend of a wanted murderer. He’s
Horst Buchholz, brooding and intense
in the Brando-Newman-Dean manner,
but handsomer than all three. As a baffled
police superintendent, John Mills has an
awful time wringing the truth out of his
real-life daughter. family

20th *

The Story on Page One cinemascope

Realistic writing (by Clifford Odets,
who doubles as director ) and several
good performances make this a rousing
courtroom drama. Rita Hayworth, who's
forgotten all about being exotic, is fine
as a housewife accused of killing her
husband. Gig Young cuts out his usual
comedy to do a sympathetic job as
Rita’s lover and co-defendant, and An-
thony Franciosa’s the young lawyer who
takes on their seemingly hopeless case.
But the character you’ll remember (and
enjoy hating) is Mildred Dunnock, as
Gig’s mother. Like Katharine Hepburn

in “Suddenly, Last Summer,” she acts
very genteel and devoted, yet Tony de-
scribes her quite accurately as a “mon-

ster.” ADULT

c r> M-G-M ; CINEMA-

IMever so tew scope, metrocolor

In spite of some grim details, Frank
Sinatra gives us a pretty romantic pic-
ture of modern warfare, while he’s
swashbuckling around the Burma jun-
gle with a lot of colorful pals, including
(below, left) Gina Lollobrigida, who
doesn’t exactly seem to be a very good
girl. Frank’s the tough commander of
an American-British-Burmese guerrilla
force that’s outnumbered by the better-
equipped Japanese. Taking time out
from his TV- western chores, Steve Mc-
Queen makes a nice impression as a
sassy jeep-driver who thinks the army’s
a breeze after life in Brooklyn. And
Dean Jones, when he’s not hiding be-
hind specs, is downright handsome, adult

Cash McCall WARNERS; TECHNICOLOR

Maybe it seems a long way from the
Old West to Wall Street, but James
Garner makes the jump with no trouble
at all. ’To average moviegoers, big busi-
ness deals and stock-juggling might get
kind of dull, so Jim and the movie-mak-
ers have shrewdly tried to play it light.
In fact, Cash looks remarkably like a
modern-dress Brett Maverick, aiming to
get rich without working. Decorative
Natalie Wood gives Jim (below, right)
an extra incentive for his schemes, but
jealous Nina Foch isn’t going to let ro-
mance bloom. She has designs of her
own on the famous young tycoon, family

NOW PLAYING

For fuller reviews see Photoplay for the months
indicated. For full reviews this month, see
page 76. (a — adult f — family)

BELOVED INFIDEL— 20th; CinemaScope, De
Luxe Color: Cast as novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald
and columnist Sheilah Graham, Gregory Peck
and Deborah Kerr are most touching when the
film becomes just a simple story of a girl who
loves a drunk. Greg’s fine! (A) February

BEN-HUR — M-G-M; Camera 65, Technicolor:
This epic of Roman imperialism, Jewish pa-
triotism and Christianity’s beginnings is the
best of the big pictures about Bible days. Charl-
ton Heston and Haya Harareet as Judeans,
Stephen Boyd and Jack Hawkins as Romans
stand out in a story that has not only historic
excitement but ageless emotions and ideas.
(F) February

FLYING FONTAINES, THE— Columbia: New
young players Michael Callan, Evy Norlund
and Rian Garrick brighten a mild circus yarn,
all about the tangled love lives of the boys and
girls on the flying trapeze. (F) February

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY— U. A.: David Niv-
en’s hilarious as a fanatical TV-hater, but the
chief joke of this thin comedy is less funny, as
he endangers his twelve-year marriage to Mitzi
Gaynor by babbling about thei’ courtship.
(A) January

HOUND-DOG MAN — 20th; CinemaScope, De
Luxe Color: Easygoing, country-style story in-
troduces Fabian to films, as a hero-worshipper.
Carol Lynley thinks she can get Fabe’s idol,
footloose Stuart Whitman, to settle down. Dodie
Stevens is Fabe’s gal. (F) December

HOUSE OF THE SEVEN HAWKS, THE—
M-G-M: Real Dutch backgrounds make the
mysterious goings-on extra interesting. As a
tough American adventurer, Robert Taylor
is on the prowl for lost Nazi loot. (F) January

JAYEAWKERS, THE— Paramount; Vista Vi-
sion. Technicolor: Pre-Civil War western finds
Jeff Chandler plotting to be king of Kansas,
with Fess Parker’s help. The action bogs down
in loo many gabfests. (F) December

LI’L ABNER — Paramount; VistaVision, Tech-
nicolor: Big, bouncy musical, done with lots
of style and color, brings you that crazy
gang from Dogpalch. Some are strictly from
comicsville; some are real good-looking — like
Peter Palmer, Leslie Parrish, Julie Newmar.
(F) January

MIRACLE, THE — Warners; Technirama, Tech-
nicolor: Sweeping romance of 19th Century
Spain gives Carroll Baker a dream role as
a postulant who leaves the convent, finds
adventure — and men. The part calls for an
old-fashioned glamour queen. Carroll isn’t. (F)

January

MOUSE THAT ROARED, THE— Columbia,
Eastman Color: Why would a tiny (imaginary)
European country declare war on the U. S.?
The answer’s full of fun. Peter Sellers juggles
three roles, one of them opposite Jean Seberg,
who’s a pretty American. (F) December

ODDS AGAINST TOMORROW— U.A.: In this

skillfully made but routinely plotted thriller,
Harry Belafonte. Robert Ryan. Ed Begley lend
excitement to the story of a bank robbery bun-
gled through race prejudice. (A) December

ON THE BEACH— U. A.: Frighteningly real-
istic picture of 1964, intended to scare us into
thinking — and action. In Australia, Ava Gard-
ner, Gregory Peck, Fred Astaire, Tony Perkins.
Donna Anderson await the radio-active doom
that’s hit everyone else. (F) January

1001 ARABIAN NIGHTS— UPA, Columbia;
Technicolor: Pleasing, if too talky, cartoon
feature finds Magoo in old Bagdad. Jim Backus
provides his voice; Kathy Grant, Dwayne Hick-
man speak for the young lovers. (F) January

OPERATION PETTICOAT— U-I, Eastman Col-
or: Upright officer Cary Grant and slick opera-
tor Tony Curtis team up for laughs, on a World
War II sub that takes aboard nurses Dina
Merrill, Joan O’Brien. (F) January

PILLOW TALK — U-I; CinemaScope, Eastman
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comedy, the New York phone company gets two
subscribers (Doris Day, Rock Hudson) together
by putting them on a party line. With songs,
Tony Randall, Thelma Ritter. (A) November

SUMMER PLACE, A — Warners, Technicolor:
Sandra Dee and Troy Donahue make highly
appealing young lovers, battling their parents’
problems. Big emotional scenes and sex discus-
sions; handsome settings. (A) December

TAKE A GIANT STEP— U.A.: In a splendid
acting debut, singer Johnny Nash is a boy of
sixteen, a Negro in a white town, still facing
universal troubles as he takes the step from
adolescence to maturity. (A) October

THEY CAME TO CORDURA— Columbia; Cin-
emaScope, Eastman Color: Different sort of
film that happens to have a western setting, on
the Mexican-Ameriean border back in 1916.
When the story's tensions separate the men from
the boys, Gary Cooper sees Van Heflin as a
brute. Tab Hunter a careerist. Ignoring glam-
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and win Vera Miles from rich, stuffy George
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| CITY STATE |

o L J

ROGER SMITH

Continued from, page 26

A man loves a woman because of her
beauty . . . not only for the way she looks
but the way she moves, and the sound of
her voice and her laughter. And a beauty,
too, that seems to come from deep within
her eyes when she looks at him. It is an
individual beauty that seems to grow as
he gets to know her.

There seemed to be a beauty about Vici
right from the very first time I saw her. It
was November — November, 1955 — and she
was walking across the lot at Columbia.
Even at that moment, I thought, “You are
lovely. You have a grace and charm about
your walk, about the way you hold your
head, a charm that I’ve never seen in any-
one else.” She had long, silky auburn hair
and a cute, turned-up nose. I wanted to
go over and speak to her but I was scared.
I thought, “What chance do I have? There
must be a dozen men pursuing her right
now.” So I just let her walk by.

I felt a new beauty in her the first time
I kissed her — just one month later. It was
a beauty of manner, of poise, and even
though it was a stage kiss it was some-
thing very special to me. She didn’t know
this . . . she didn’t even know how much
I’d admired her. And yet she had a way
of smiling, of looking at me, out of those
magnificent emerald eyes, which made me
feel that the Vici I was getting to know,
was not so different from the Vici I’d
imagined.

I wasn’t sure what she would say when I
suggested we rehearse some of the scenes
alone, together, away from the actual locale
of the film — on the beach. I guess I was a
little surprised when she answered softly,
“I’d love to go to the beach. What time
would you pick me up?”

And then, when I rang her doorbell the
next day and saw her standing before me,
dressed so simply in slacks and a blouse
and flat sandals — and a towel and a bath-
ing suit tucked under her arm — I began
to see another Vici that I love — an honest,
real Vici. There was no falseness about
her, just a wonderful simplicity that made
me want to say, “I’m glad you could come.

We didn’t go to the beach, we wound
up at Disneyland. I bought her cotton
candy and found myself laughing again
and again at the way she tackled that large
pink mound of froth, because it kept get-
ting stuck to the end of her nose.

By the time I took her home, that eve-
ning, I’d become quiet. I kept thinking, all
the time, about the day and how wonderful
it had been and was hoping so much that
she felt that way too. But I couldn’t tell
her. So I kept the conversation on other
things — on our parts in the scene we were
supposed to have been rehearsing, on her,
on her life in Australia where she was
born — until just before I reached her
house when I said, “Vici, how about hav-
ing dinner with me sometime this week?”

And she said, quite simply, “Yes, I’d like
that.” And that evening, I knew I was
in love.

Loving someone is believing in them,
and all through our courtship Vici was
the honest, real person I’d begun to know,
that day at Disneyland. There was never
any pretense about her at all and a man
feels strongly about this. When Vici
couldn’t do a thing, she’d say so . . . like
the time we went fishing. I’ll never forget
her standing in the doorway, waiting for
me to pick her up that morning. She was
dressed in high rubber boots and a tight-
fitting jacket and she looked so cute I
told her she was beautiful . . . beauty isn’t
necessarily when a girl’s all dressed up
for a party, or in her best bathing suit.

As beauty grows, so does love. And as

love grows, it becomes less selfish — it can
be shared with others. I think a man feels
a new kind of a love for a woman after
they have a family and I thank Vici a
million times for giving us our babies,
Tracey and Jody.

We’d been married just three months,
when she told me we were going to have
a baby. I felt a lump swell up inside my
throat and, for a moment, I just stood and
held her close to me and then I choked,
“Come on — let’s go and fill this room with
furniture. We can’t become a family in an
empty space!” We’d rented a tiny apart-
ment by that time, but had only been able
to afford one chair, a bed and a few things
for the kitchen.

I don’t think there is any other time quite
like the time when you’re waiting to be-
come a parent . . . watching your wife as
she seems to gain a glow about herself,
a look within her eye, a new softness and
gentleness of manner that you never saw
before. We laughed and joked and argued
over names . . . but no one ever had such
happy arguments. We fought and fought
over my insistence that she keep as quiet
and as rested as possible, she insisting
that she was, quite definitely, not an in-
valid. But we were happy even in these
fights.

And then, one day, I found that we could
afford a house. And when I told her
and we went and looked at some to-
gether, and she began to talk about the
type of home she wanted, about the way
she’d dreamed that things would always
be, I felt an earnestness, a homeyness
about her words that made me realize . . .
here was a woman, a wife, someone who
would make a real home for me . . . not
just another place to hang my hat. And I
realized loving was having someone to
share your goals.

Having a family was one of these goals
and I always feel a particular fondness for
Vici every time I notice the new radiance
and joy our children have brought her.

A man loves a woman, too, for her
courage and her faith. . . .

I don’t think I shall ever forget the day
I woke up again, to real consciousness,
after my serious illness last year — the
accident in which I hurt my head. Not
once, in all that time, had Vici ever let
me know— by expression or in anything
she said — that I’d been close to death. She
simply sat and smiled and talked about
home, about our children and our friends
in a soft and comforting voice, trying to
make me forget about my pain. I had con-
fidence because I saw no fear in her face.
It made me feel that I would be all right
. . . yet, I can imagine how she must have
suffered inside, because I know now how
critically ill I was.

I love her, too, for the faith and confi-
dence she kept in me at the beginning,
when I was struggling to get on with my
career and, more than once, came home
wanting to give up. She seemed to sense
how much acting meant to me and I thank
her so much for this, because now I can
see that it has been far more satisfying
to me than anything else I might have
tried. Because it was what I’d always
wanted to do.

So love is understanding.

Yet love is also a wonderful collection of
crazy, silly things that a woman does. . . .

Who else, but the woman I love, would
stand for hours, in complete exasperation,
wondering why the curtains won’t hang
straight?

Who can fail to love a woman who, one
minute stands before you looking quite
the picture of a sophisticate, and the next,
like a twelve-year-old in slacks and san-
dals and no makeup at all. And then again,
I want to tell her suddenly, spontaneously,

just how very much I love her.

And when, at times like the beginning
of our marriage, when I came home once
to find the dinner burned, Vici looked so
helpless, so forlorn, that all of a sudden
my anger melted into a feeling of tre-
mendous affection for her. She was so
much like a little girl who was expecting
her mother to scold her about having a
muddy dress — and with not a word to say
in her own defense.

Who else would store my cufflinks in a
hat box? Get all upset because I didn’t
like that strip of feather she called a hat?

Or, in the space of a single day, be a
rational, collected mother and yet not able
to stand up to the temptation of a “Marked
Down” tag on a dress . . . splurge on gifts
for me and the babies and yet, should a
crisis arise, be amazingly shrewd and cal-
culating?

How often have we sat talking together
and suddenly, the deep pensive look on
Vici’s face has seemed so profoundly sol-
emn, so deeply serious, that for the mo-
ment I cannot think about our conversation
any more, but only smile in amusement at
her expression, and think how lovely she
looks with eyes wide and her lips pouting
slightly, and then suddenly I want to say,
“Vici, I love you.”

I guess part of love is knowing she cares
for me, too. Because I’ll always remember
the radiance about her face and the sud-
den warmth about her smile the first time
I told her that I loved her. And I thank
her a million times for answering softly,
“Roger, I love you, too.” At that moment
I don’t think there was a happier man in
the world.

It’s funny how the words, “I love you,”
can be the easiest or the hardest a man
can ever say. Words of love flow effort-
lessly when they are meant without a
serious intent — just casual, social words —
and yet . . . why do those words, those
very same words stick uncomfortably in
your throat when they are meant for the
girl you want to marry, to take care of
and be with for always.

Love is understanding how a man feels.
So many times, when I’m feeling a little
depressed or unhappy about something
which might have gone wrong during the
day, she has a way of knowing — of putting
her arms around me and kissing me softly
and gently and telling me that she loves
me.

It is also making a man feel rather
special. Can I really explain the feeling of
great warmth I get when she approaches

me with an almost childlike faith in my
ability to solve her problem of the mo-
ment? Or how I feel when she cocks her
head a little to one side and says, “I knew
you’d know just what to do. You’re won-
derful.” And goes away with a new light
to her face?

Yet, are there reasons to explain the
way I feel when I see the delicate, misty
tearful look that comes all over her face
when I compliment her unexpectedly — as
though it meant so much to her? Or the
way I feel when I tell her that I love her
and she blushes slightly and lowers her
pretty little head and scolds, playfully,
“Oh — Roger.”

I believe love grows from those special
moments you have shared together. I re-
member, particularly, one Valentine’s Day
when I’d arranged to have a cake made in
the shape of a heart for Vici. It had the
words, “I Love You,” scrawled in icing on
the top. And when I brought it home and
showed it to her . . . she cried. She just
stood there and cried.

For a moment I didn’t know what to
do and I just looked at her sheepishly,
watching the tears run down her face. And
then I suddenly felt a great surge of love
and I went over to her and kissed her
gently. It may sound a little odd, but it
was the best “thank you” she could have
ever given me. A woman’s tears can melt
a man — when they’re honest. Make him
feel he’s needed and strong.

She was still crying, her head on my
shoulder, when I slipped a tiny box into
her hand. She looked down and began
untying the wrapping. Then, when she
saw what was inside — a bracelet with a
charm inscribed, “Nunca me olvides”
(Spanish for “Never Forget Me”) — she
blinked and whispered, “Oh — Roger . . .
you’re . . . you’re too good to me.”

These, then, are ways of love . . . things
which say why does a man love a woman?
Do they make sense? Maybe not. But
then, does love?

I thank Vici for all that she is, all that
she’s done, all that we’ve shared together
and the memories, which have somehow
become blurred together in a crazy, won-
derful pattern and which, now, as I think
of them, make we want to get up from
my chair and go over to her and kiss
her. —ROGER SMITH

SEE ROGER IN “77 SUNSET STRIP” EVERY FRI.,
9-10 P.M. EST., ON ABC-TV. VICTORIA SHAW CAN
BE SEEN APPEARING IN COLUMBIA’S “EDGE OF
ETERNITY” AND ALSO IN “i AIM AT THE STARS.”

The W Oman’s Guide to Better Living

The radio program “My True Story” deals frankly with the gamut
of human emotions — the real problems of real people. Straight from
the files of True Story Magazine, these stories may hold the answers
to problems faced by you, your family, your friends. See your local
paper for time and station.

Tune in Every Day to

My True Story

National Broadcasting Company

And don’t miss “Restless Wives” — a psychiatrist’s frank appraisal of women’s
changing morals — in . . .

March TRUE STORY Noiv on Sale

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PARTIAL LIST OF CONTENTS

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FABIAN

Continued, from page 32

liked to dress like this on days when he
didn’t have anywhere special to go.

He hurried downstairs into the kitchen,
but no one was there. A note was tacked
on the refrigerator from his mom: “Have
gone downtown with Bobby, Tommy and
Dad to do last-minute shopping. Won’t
be back ’til late this afternoon. Make
yourself breakfast. Also, D.D. and Foggy
called. Meet them at the club at two.”

For a second he felt as he had when
he first woke up — as if something was
wrong. His mother always told him the
night before if she was going to be out all
day. But he shrugged it off — probably she
had just forgotten about it.

He tried putting the uneasy feeling out
of his mind as he made himself a full
breakfast of orange juice, cereal with
bananas, eggs and bacon, toast and marma-
lade and a glass of milk.

Then he remembered. Of course he felt
uneasy. Today was Friday the thir-
teenth and somehow for him that date
had always lived up to its reputation.
Thinking, for a moment, what he had
planned to do that day, he chuckled. Gee,
he thought. This one’s going to take the
prize. Not one pleasant thing in view.

So he fiddled about the house for a
while, putting off his first appointment
which was at the local high school. He
emptied the garbage out the back, al-
though it hardly needed emptying, he
washed his father’s car, although it didn’t
really need washing, then he went into
the house again and watched TV for a
while even though the program was dull.

Then, looking at his watch, he decided
he’d just have to start out for the school
— South Philadelphia High.

As soon as he stepped inside the door
of the high school he wanted to walk right
out again. But he didn’t.

Classes were changing and he went over
to a bunch of his friends.

Before he could quite realize what was
happening, they were firing questions at
him and he was answering them as fast
as possible. “ ... Yes, this is my last
day here . . . We move tomorrow . . . New
Jersey . . . Haddonfield, New Jersey . . .
Oh, it’s a bigger house than we have now
and a much nicer one . . . Nothing fancy
though, just more room inside . . . and
outside . . . No, there’s no special section
for me, I’ll have my own room, that’s all.”

“What’ll you do about school, Fabe?”
asked his friend Paul, coming over to the
group.

“I’m gonna do my best to graduate with
you — with my class — in 1961. Until then,
while I’m in Hollywood, I’ll be attending
the studio school but otherwise Miss
Schwartz will tutor me in algebra and
chemistry and Dr. Stigall will help me
with English and history. I’ll be getting
the same assignments you do. And if I’m
lucky . . .”

The warning bell for the next class
broke up the crowd. Paul grabbed
Fabian’s arm and said, “Come on to class
with me — for the last time.”

“Aw, I’d feel funny,” Fabian said, but
he allowed himself to be pulled along. He
didn’t know how to tell his friends what
he was feeling, but this was his last day.
Tomorrow he was moving, leaving this
town, this school, these friends. He had to
say goodbye.

They entered a door at the back of the
room, and Fabian saw that his old desk
was empty. He slid into the seat. Students
waved to him, others smiled his way, and

a fellow in the next seat bent toward
him to talk. Then the teacher, a young
woman, entered the room and the room
became quiet.

Fabian heard her begin to discuss the
next day’s assignment, but that’s about all
he saw and heard, because, as he traced
his fingers over the familiar desk top
and moved his long legs under the desk
until they found their usual, most com-
fortable position, his thoughts began to
wander. He didn’t want to leave his
friends and all the things he’d grown up
with. Suddenly New Jersey seemed a
million miles away to him, a strange, un-
known planet. Would he be able to find
friends there — good friends like Paul and
D.D. and Foggy? Or would he be an
outsider, not one of the gang because he
hadn’t grown up there or gone to school
there — or even planned to go to school
there. He felt empty and a little scared.

At the end of the lesson, he slipped
quietly out of the door into the hall. Paul
followed right after him.

“Mind if I tag along?” his friend asked.
“Besides, with all that mob in the hall,
just before class, I just didn’t have a
chance to really say goodbye.”

“Sure,” said Fabian, “although I have
no idea where I’m going.”

He knew where he wanted to go though.
Home. Where he wouldn’t have to tell
anybody goodbye. Home. Where he
wouldn’t feel confused and he’d be alone.

But there were people he just had to say
goodbye to. So he and Paul walked
slowly through the halls, now and then
stopping to chat to some of his teachers
and some more of his schoolmates; to the
principal, Mr. Rossi, who had presented
him with a surprise loving cup, back in
June, when he’d put on a benefit per-
formance for the summer football train-
ing camp and helped raise $4,000; to Miss
Schwartz, his algebra teacher, who’d got
mad at him when he’d played hookey, just
once, but who’d laughed and forgiven him
a month later — he’d be seeing her again,
of course, ’cause she was one of his tutors;
to Mr. Pitt and Mr. Siani, the football
coach and the head of the gym (it was
Mr. Pitt who had given him the greatest
thrill of his life, that day of the benefit
back in June, by awarding him a varsity
football letter — a big, felt “S” — and telling
everybody that he would have won it on
the football field if he hadn’t been so busy
singing around the country; and to a lot
of the fellows and girls he’d gotten to know
during his years at South Philly High.

There were other people he should see —
his homeroom teacher from last term, the
janitor he always kidded with, and lots
more — but suddenly he couldn’t bear to
say another goodbye. “Let’s get out of
here,” he said, turning to Paul, and they
headed for an Exit door.

“How about lunch?” Paul asked. “I’m
starved. The school cafeteria?”

“Not the cafeteria,” Fabian shrugged.
“Let’s go to Joe Slick’s since it’s my last
day.”

Joe Slick’s was a soda fountain just
across the street. They squeezed into a
booth and Paul ordered a double burger
with French fries, a strawberry malt and
some pie and ice cream. Fabian read and
reread the menu, then ordered just a black
and white soda — his favorite.

“Is that all?” asked Paul. “Must be
something the matter if you can’t eat.”

“I ate a late breakfast,” Fabian replied
and let it go at that. He sipped his soda
slowly, but somehow couldn’t finish it.

He stood up suddenly. “I gotta run,”
he said. “I promised to meet Foggy and
D.D. at the club at two.” He leaned over
and wrote his new address on a napkin.
“Come and see me,” he said. “Soon.”

Then he started to put out his hand to
shake Paul’s, felt silly, pulled back his
hand, then thrust it out again to cuff his
friend on the shoulder “See you,” he
said and walked out fast.

He found D.D. (Anthony Carrazza) and
Foggy (Joe Palamone) standing on the
steps of the South Philadelphia Boys Club.

“Well, hello,” said D.D., bowing low
from the waist.

“Hi,” chimed in Foggy. “How’s your
last day?”

“Fine,” he lied. “Got your phone mes-
sage and I’m here to say goodbye.”

“Feel like going into the gym?” D.D.
asked.

“Just what I need,” Fabian answered,
glad of the chance to do something besides
talking. And they went inside.

So, for the next hour or so Fabian and
his buddies horsed around in the gym. He
had to admit (only to himself, of course)
that he was a little out of shape, but it
was a great feeling just running and
jumping and wrestling and fooling around.
He hadn’t done it for ages. He found his
gym stuff in his old locker and it still fit
him. For their final contest, he and D.D.
climbed hand-over-hand up ropes to the
ceiling. Foggy, who was the judge, hol-
lered out, “A tie,” as they reached the
ceiling.

“Fake! Frameup!” screamed D.D. from
the top of his rope.

“Kill the referee!” Fabian shouted down.

Without answering, Foggy walked over
to the ropes, yanked both of them violent-
ly, and Fabian and D.D. came sliding
down the ropes, finally tumbling to the
floor, pulling Foggy down on top of them.

Then, running all the way into the
showers, they sang together at the tops of
their voices. It’s really like old times,
Fabian thought, ducking his head under
the steaming water. And suddenly he
stopped singing. It was going to be hard
leaving D.D. and Foggy and all his other
friends in the neighborhood.

“What’s the matter?” Foggy shouted
from the next shower. “Lost your voice?”

“Nope — I’ve got soap in my mouth,”
Fabian said, thinking quickly. He began
to sing again with them, but somehow it
wasn’t like before. . . .

The same empty, churning feeling he’d
had all day was still there, when the
three of them walked across the street
to Politano’s candy store just a few min-
utes later. And then, as Fabian watched
his friends joking together, he suddenly
became aware of the real reason why he
was feeling this way. It wasn’t just be-
cause it was his last day in Philly. It was
something else. D.D. and Foggy and even
Paul had been acting strangely. They
seemed unnaturally matter-of-fact about
his going away. Didn’t anyone care? But
then he shrugged the whole thing off . . .
why should they care, he thought, reason-
ing with himself. What’s so special about
me? But, as he took a leap and a jump
onto the sidewalk, he knew that he really
did care.

They slid into their usual seats in the
corner, ordered sodas, and began joking
and laughing about old times. But Fabian’s
thoughts went back further ... to the
time, so many years ago, when he’d come
into the store for the first time. His mother
had brought him there to buy school
supplies, for the first grade, and he could
hardly see over the counter. He’d held
her hand tightly and felt so proud when
she let him pay Mr. Politano for the pen-
cils, crayons and notebooks.

He turned his head, and through the
front door he could see the old familiar
fire plug at the curb, the one he’d help
open on hot nights to flood the streets
(and the Politanos’ windows) with water.

Across the street was a brick wall . . .
“Remember how we used to play over
there,” he said to the fellows, nodding his
head toward it.

Then suddenly, as if it were only yes-
terday, he remembered standing out there
in the middle of the street and kicking a
can high in the air. The next moment,
there’d been an awful crash as it sailed
through the window of the Politanos’
garage. ...

“What’s the matter with the soda?”
Foggy asked. “Something the matter?
And you’re so quiet.”

“No,” he answered, looking up. “It’s
fine. I was just remembering all the great
times I’ve had around this store.” Then
a half smile came on his face. He
turned to the boy behind the counter. “You
remember Halloween a couple of years
ago? The noise at your window? Your
whole family must have been in and out
a thousand times trying to figure out
what the rapping was. Well, I did it,” he
confessed. “Me and the gang. . . . This
is the trick we used.” He began to draw
with a pencil on a napkin, diagramming
what had happened.

The boy reached over and took the
diagram out of his hand. “Just sign your
name at the bottom of this,” he said, laugh-
ing. “We’ll always have your confession
on hand to give to the police, just in case
you come back to visit us.”

Fabian scrawled a signature, “Elvis Pres-
ley,” and then headed for the door after
D.D. and Foggy who’d already gotten up.

Out on the street Foggy said, “We’ve
got to be going now, Fabe. We’ve both got
tests in school tomorrow.”

Fabian thrust out his hand and shook
D.D.’s and then Foggy’s. “Goodbye,” he
said, “be seeing you.” Then he hurried
off down the street.

All the way to the Bellevue Pharmacy,
his next stop, he tried to blot the
memory of D.D. and Foggy from his
mind. But they wouldn’t stay blotted. He
remembered how strange they’d acted . . .
they’d rushed off so quickly. I guess I just
want to feel I’d be missed, he thought, an-
noyed at himself for caring.

A few minutes later, he stopped still,
outside the Bellevue Pharmacy, stood un-
decidedly at the door, and then went in.
Immediately, he noticed that Bob Grob-
man — the fellow who’d given him an after-
school job in the drugstore, when he was
only twelve, wasn’t around. But, never-
theless, he walked behind the counter and
looked up at a shelf — the third from the
top — and started to laugh.

“Is anything wrong, sir?” the clerk asked
him.

“Not wrong,” answered Fabian. “The
bicarbonate of soda’s still there.”

“What? What?” said the somewhat con-
fused clerk.

“The bicarbonate of soda. Oh, never
mind. Forget it. No, don’t forget it. Tell
Bob Grobman that Fabian dropped in to
say goodbye. I’m leaving town. Tell him
I just wanted to check if the bicarbonate
of soda had fallen off the shelf.”

Still laughing, Fabian left the bewildered
clerk and went out of the store. Bob would
remember. . . . Part of Fabian’s errand-
boy’s job had been checking stock. In the
process, he’d broken a lot of things. Then
one night he’d been straightening a shelf
when a one-pound box of bicarbonate of
soda had fallen on his head, dousing him
in powder. While he was sweeping it
up, Bob had looked at him, shook his
head in mock annoyance and said, “Put
a little in a glass for me. After watching
you juggle stock, I need some.”

Fabian walked on past Frankie Avalon’s
old house — past the open lot v/here he’d
played football, past the building where
he’d dropped bags filled with water on

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passers-by, past the alley-way where
he’d had his first fist fight with another
boy (why or with whom he’d long since
forgotten) .

Then, all of a sudden, he was in front
of The Stella Maris Church — the church
at which Father McLaughlin, the priest,
had given him and his mother such com-
fort in the difficult days following his
father’s sudden heart attack two years ago.
Without thinking, he entered the church
and stood near the back. He didn’t pray
exactly, he just sort of thought about
everything that had happened to him that
day. About his friends . . . about how
Foggy and D.D. had let him down . . .
about leaving the only neighborhood and
home he’d ever known.

Then he thought of his new home. The
larger, more comfortable home he’d bought
for his parents’ twenty-second wedding
anniversary. It would be a place where
his dad could relax, where his two broth-
ers— especially Bobby who’d been so sick
— would have plenty of room to play in
the backyard.

He turned and left the church.

It was already getting dark as he neared
his house, and the anxious feeling he’d
had all day, increased. He started to
walk up the front steps, but stopped
abruptly. There were no lights on. Some-
thing must be wrong. It was way past six.
His folks and his brothers were always
home long before this. Could something
have happened?

Fabian fumbled in the darkness for his
key. Everything had gone wrong that
day . . . and now a dark, empty house.
He found his key and opened the door.

Suddenly, all the lights, went on. “Sur-
prise! Surprise! Surprise!” He looked
around, bewildered. Everyone he knew
seemed to be crowded into the living
room, and they were all trying to get to him
at the same time, to slap his back and
holler “Surprise.”

“I was in on the plot,” screamed Paul.
“It was my job to keep you in school . . .
not to let you go home for lunch.”

“We had the job of keeping you away
from the house,” yelled Foggy, “keeping
you in the gym.”

Fabian pulled out a handkerchief and
covered his face for a second. Fame and
success, they meant a lot to him. But

he had found more important things. Like
friendships. All day long, he’d been afraid
he was losing those things that were so
important to him.

“Must have a cold,” he mumbled. Then
he walked slowly around the room, stop-
ping a few minutes to talk to everyone.

“So this is what you call last minute
shopping?” he said, kidding with his
mother, and pointing to a table laden
with turkey and ham and roast beef and
cheese and a big bowl of steaming-hot
spaghetti.

“I was home by three,” his younger
brother said, coming to Fabian. “I was
posted guard on the porch to keep you
from coming in.”

“I bet you stage-managed all this,” he
said to Bob Marcucci, his manager and
friend who was standing in a corner. Bob
smiled.

“It was everybody’s idea,” Mary Ann
Nocita, the girl who lived practically next
door, said.

So he went from one to another: to his
aunts and uncles and cousins; to Mr. and
Mrs. Palmieri who lived in the next house;
to some of the gang from Chancellor
Records; to a bunch of the fellows and
girls from school — and suddenly he
thought he’d never felt happier or sadder
in his life.

“Let’s have a toast,” shouted D.D. “Yes,
a toast,” echoed Foggy. “To Fabian! Good
luck. We’ll miss you.”

While his mother proudly poured out
wine, Fabian shifted awkwardly from one
foot to the other foot. Then he said, in a
quiet voice, “Ma, do you think it’s all
right if I just have a glass of milk?”

“Too much and you’ll be a milk-oholic,”
one of the kids from school joked, and
everybody laughed.

“Speech!” shouted someone from the
back.

“Yes — we want Fabian! We want
Fabian!” the others joined in.

“Gee, what can I say except thank
you?” began Fabian. Then he cleared
his throat, coughed and began, “Unac-
customed as I am. . . .” The End

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YUL BRYNNER

Continued from page 41

man are you. Where do you come from?
What makes a Yul Brynner?

First, your mystery. This mystery is one
of the reasons why you have such a strong
fascination over women. Like that day in
Vienna. Remember? It was last year. Your
car pulled up in front of the hotel where
you were staying and a crowd of women
came surging toward you. Do you remem-
ber it, Yul? Do you remember how, when
you looked upon the crowd, a strange,
almost hypnotic hush seemed to fall over
them? No one moved. There was no
screaming or pushing. Everyone watched
you in awed silence.

You took it all in your stride, smiling
kindly at the faces before you, writing your
name in the autograph books which al-
most everyone held out to you. For each
of your admirers you had a personal re-
mark, a kind word.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” you
whispered into the ear of a little girl with
long pigtails. She blushed and stepped
back in confusion. “I love your city,” you
said to an older, plump, Viennese lady.

She beamed with pride at your words.

After you signed the books, you raised
your hat and, with a little bow, disap-
peared into the hotel. The crowd stood in
silence. The effect had been magical.

Yet, as you waited for the elevator to take
you to your room, you could still hear the
whispers of a small group of women, who
had followed you into the lobby. You
could hear the voice of one woman who,
in the excitement, forgot to whisper:
“Let’s face it, girls,” she said. “Yul Bryn-
ner’s really a fraud.”

Was she right, Yul? Do you go to great
lengths not to let people know the other
side of Yul Brynner? Like the story of
your days in Paris.

The thin young boy of just fourteen
years who ran off from boarding school,
one day — that was you — and you roamed
the streets with a guitar on your back
and a head full of folk songs, playing to the
people in the cafes. When people laughed,
you pretended indifference and that in-
difference became part of you, the part
you let show when you joined the circus,
when you met Marcello. Marcello was a
trapeze artist at the famous Cirque D’Hiver, i
the winter circus. He took you to watch the i
great circus at work and, as you craned
your neck back to watch the aerialists
flying through the air, your heart pounded

with excitement. The bright costumes, the
music, the smell of the animals — it seemed
a wonderful world and you wished you
were part of it. Then, one of the trapeze
artists came over to greet Marcello and he
introduced you.

“You a flyer, too?” he asked.

“Sure,” you said. You couldn’t let him
know you didn’t belong. And when he said
that, if you wanted to, you could work
out on the high trapeze, you had to carry
through your bluff.

Hand over hand, you climbed the rope to
the take-off platform. It was just big
enough to stand on and it was fifty feet
above the ground. When you looked down,
everything swam before your eyes and you
almost fainted. So you just didn’t look
down again.

You took a deep gulp of air, grabbed
hold of the trapeze and swung out into
space. You swung back and forth, terrified.
Then, someone below cried, “Let go!” And
you were so startled that you obeyed. By
some miracle, you dropped back on the
platform.

It had been a trick, an old joke that
the flyers play on someone they suspect of
being a greenhorn. An experienced flyer
wouldn’t let go just because someone
yelled at him, but, out of fright and inex-
perience, a greenhorn would.

When you slid down the rope to the
ground, they were roaring with laughter
at you. You started to walk off, but Mar-
cello ran after you and, clapping you on
the back, he said. “You have something. I
think you could be a flyer.” You thought
he was just trying to make you feel better,
but he offered, “I’ll train you, and you
can be one of my partners.”

After that, you were at the circus every
day. Time and again, you would climb to
your place on the platform and, at Mar-
cello’s signal, leap into empty space to
grip his outstretched hands. And during
those three years, you learned concentra-
tion and discipline, physical and mental. It
helped you, later, when you had to face
defeat.

You were seventeen and you had learned
your trade well. This night you were at
your usual place, the powerful kleig lights
pinpointing your wiry body, the muffled
crescendo of drums echoing below you.
The grandstand was crowded and every-
one’s eyes were on you. People craned
their necks back to see, just as you had on
that first day. Then the drums stopped and
everyone was quiet, waiting. You leaped.
Your fingers clawed at the trapeze, but all
you felt was a great nothingness. The
crowd gasped as you plummeted down.
You fell into the net, bounced back into
the air, and fell again, this time tumbling
down . . . right down to the hard ground.
You knew defeat.

That night, the doctors were emphatic.
“Your entire left side is fractured,” they
said. “You will be a cripple for life.” You
held back your tears and learned you have
only yourself to count on. After a moment,
you told the doctors, “I will walk again.”
And you did. It was your will, taut and
iron to match a trapeze artist’s body, that
made you better. But when the reporter
said you had used a mysterious, oriental
technique, you just smiled and encouraged
him.

Years later, as you whipped about a
movie set on a horse, goading the horse to

PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS

Debbie Reynolds color by Frank Gilloon; Fabian
color and black-and-white by Topix ; Tuesday
Weld color by Topix; Carol Lynley by Vivian
Crozier; Liz Taylor and Eddie Fisher by P./.P.;
Justine and Bob by Globe Photos; Elvis Presley
by U.P.I.

the frenzy of excitement that would match
your character in “The Brothers Kara-
mazov,” you were thrown to the ground
again. You tried to get up, but a sharp
pain went through you. You lay there
stunned, unable to move, until the ambu-
lance came. At the hospital, you knew,
from the doctor’s worried face, that it was
bad. But you waited for his verdict, waited
almost as if this were something you had
already lived through.

“Your back is broken.” the doctor told
you. “You’ll have to wear a metal brace.
And you must have complete rest for many,
many weeks.”

Benny Thau, the studio boss, was stand-
ing at your bed. He pulled out a handker-
chief and wiped his brow. Then, smiling
down at you, he said. “Well, we’ll just
have to close down the set, that’s all.”

He lit a cigarette and handed it to you
and you took a long drag on it. Then you
said, “That won’t be necessary. I’ll be
there tomorrow.”

Benny protested and so did the doctor.
They tried to talk you out of it.

“I won’t change my mind,” you said.

And you were there, on the set, the
next day. You had learned the power of
will many years before. Wearing the braces
the doctor had insisted on, you walked
over to the horse that had thrown you,
patted him on the nose, and said, “Well,
you won the first round.”

You wore the braces for eight weeks and
then, one warm, clear day, you closed
the book you were reading and turned
to your son, Rocky. “Let’s go water-ski-
ing,” you said. “I think I can manage.”

Rocky didn’t try to talk you out of it.
He simply drove out to Malibu with you
and climbed into a boat. Then you slid into
the water, shivering, a little, at the first
shock of it, and then slipped on the skis.
You signaled to Rocky and he threw the
tow line to you. Holding on to it, like a
trapeze, really, you felt yourself being
pulled up out of the water and then you
were skimming along the surface. The
pain that had been with you all those
weeks, was mostly gone and though there
was a straining, as you held on, you felt
confident again in your own body.

After a while, you let the tow line go
and rode the waves in to the beach. With
one gesture, you tore the brace off and
threw it down on the sand. “This is the
end of you,” you said. You never wore it
again.

You said, “There is no limit to what a
human being is capable of doing if he ex-
ercises his will power. Most people worry
instead of doing. They create obstacles that
need never exist. Planning is ridiculous. It
is the intention that counts. If I intend to do
something, I do it. I don’t bother to plan.
Luck is nothing but a certain harmony.
Once there is harmony, everything emerges
and falls into place. You shouldn’t count on
it, but once you run into a streak you
should play it for all it’s worth, like in
roulette.”

But, then, you believe in fate; you be-
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thing. To you, it’s logical, too natural to
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FAST

NERVE-DEEP

you ask me, it’s his indifference, his ‘I
don’t care a hang’ attitude. He just couldn’t
care less, and that’s why we’re interested
in him.”

You heard what the woman said, you
couldn’t help hearing her. Yet the expres-
sion on your face didn’t change one bit as
you strolled into the room. You watched
the other players at the roulette table, and
then, still the perfect picture of the man
who doesn’t care, placed a stack of chips
on a number.

But you do care, Yul. Remember how
you made a complete psychoanalysis of
the character you played in “The Brothers
Karamazov,” with minute observations and
comments? Although you didn’t have much
time, when you were called to take over
the role of Solomon in “Solomon and
Sheba,” you still managed to fill several
notebooks with observations of Solomon
as a man, a philosopher and a lover.

And, for “Once More With Feeling,” in
which you played an orchestra leader,
when, even though you learned to play the
guitar from your grandmother when you
were four, you couldn’t read the music,
you set out with your usual thoroughness,
to learn everything about conducting. You
hired a professional conductor to give you
an hour’s lesson each day and, in two
months, you not only read music but you
were able to conduct Liszt’s “Preludes,”
Strauss’ “Don Juan” and Rimsky-Korsa-
kov’s “Scheherezade.” You were so pro-
fessional, the story in Paris goes, that at
the end of the last day’s shooting, the di-
rector of the Champs-Elysees Theatre—
where the shooting took place — went up to
you and said, “Mr. Brynner, I’d like to
sign you up to conduct our orchestra in a
series of concerts for next winter.”

You haven’t said no . . . yet.

You have learned that there is no qual-
ity more important than intelligence.
As one director said, “You have a rare
intelligence far beyond the usual human
capacity, which makes you seem removed
from daily things and people, and exist in
a private world of your own.”

Yet your unusual ability in so many
fields can sometimes have a frustrating
effect on those around you. Like the time
your wife, Virginia, and your business
partner, Paul Redin, took up chess.

They had been taking lessons regularly
from the chess editor of the Los Angeles
Times. After the lessons, the professor
would give them a chess problem to solve.
One day, they were seated in the garden
of your house in Hollywood, puzzling over
their problem. You had been working on
the trampoline with your son. You strolled
over to their table. They were in a terrible
hole and didn’t know how to get out. You
glanced over their shoulders, for a few
minutes, then asked a few elementary
questions of the professor. “If you tried
this, do you think it would work?” you
asked quietly as you took up one of the
pawns and moved it. You were right.

“Why, that’s extraordinary!” said the
professor. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve
never played chess before?”

You shook your head. “Never. It has
always interested me but I have never had
time to learn more than the function of
the pieces.”

“Well, I assure you that with a few les-
sons you could become a master,” the pro-
fessor answered.

You laughed and walked away.

You are a man that a woman finds hard
to live with — or live without.

You hardly need any sleep . . . remember
that night, the night you lay awake in
bed, with earphones on, listening to a late
radio program, and also watching a movie
on TV? At the same time, you were work-
ing on a scale model of a train, and
intermittently munching from a bowl of

Rice Krispies you had prepared earlier.

By your side in the huge bed, properly
equipped with earplugs and eyeshade, your
wife, Virginia, tried to sleep. You tested
the wiring of the train engine, then put ir
on the track you had laid out on the bed.

It worked. But it ran right into Virginia.

“Dammit!” Virginia screamed. “I can
take all the rest, but I won’t have trains
running into me in the middle of the
night!”

She had kept her peace, while you were
furnishing your New York apartment, and
had said nothing when you set up your
elaborate electric trains in what would
have normally been a dining room. “But
this,” she said, “is the last straw.”

And then you both laughed because you
never realized that running trains around
the bed was anything but what an average
husband would do. So you gave up trains
and started stamp collecting. To do it
right, you had to investigate every step
in the planning and production of a stamp,
right down to the artist’s proofs to prevent
buying fraudulent ones. “You must know
the history and background connected
with each issue,” you said.. “It’s very
educational.”

But you weren’t satisfied with just an
ordinary stamp collection. You introduced
something new to stamp-collecting — the
signatures of Heads of States written
across the stamps of their countries.

The few true, verified stories told about
you have, oddly enough, only increased
the mystery. Like the way you man- -
aged, despite the lack of a formal educa-
tion, to obtain a master’s degree in
philosophy from the Sorbonne ... to be-
come an expert TV director (which you
did before you entered movies) ... to be-
come a fine and much sought-after pho-
tographer . . . and one of the best

water-skiers in the country.

But what was so strange about this? you
ask. When a man doesn’t find it necessary
to explain himself, must that mean he has
something to hide?

Yet, apart from your mystery, Yul, you
are a hard man to keep pace with — many
have found out. There has even been talk,
recently, of a divorce between you and
Virginia. But, when you were asked about
it, about whether you were working out
a settlement, you just nonchalantly an-
swered, “Well, it is possible. I’m sure we
will get some word out when it is possible.”
Which says . . . ?

You are called a mysterious man, Yul.
You are called a legend. You are also
called a fraud. When cornered and asked
about this, recently, you smiled and
laughed, “I’m simply a man in the business
of creating an illusion.” Perhaps this is the
answer. Perhaps, your greatest illusion is
Yul Brynner. The End

see yul in Columbia’s “surprise package”
AND “once MORE WITH FEELING.” AND DON’T
MISS HIM IN U. A.’s “SOLOMON AND SHEBA.”

ANSWERS TO LAST MONTH'S PUZZLE

’s

•

LEAP YEAR GUIDE

Continued jrom page 48

I Go ahead — flirt, be warm. Violins will
; play, you’ll think everything he says is
; fascinating . . . and you’ll be right.

BOB EVANS -Hard-to-Snare: A moody
i matador with a talent for success that
defies explanation. The more simple his
life becomes, the more complicated he
seems to make it. One minute everything
is radiant sunshine, the next — storm clouds,
i And yet, the difficult he does immediately
(the impossible takes a little longer).

! There’s no guessing where or how to get
to him: You might just as easily attract
his attention by wearing an elegant riding
habit at a Connecticut house party as by
taking a 7 a.m. walk down Broadway in
a battered old trenchcoat, for what he’s
seeking in any relationship, and what he’s
determined to bring to it, has very little to
do with the time, the place or the trap-
pings. The word to remember is honesty —
and you’ll have to be able to take it (and
give it) whether it’s beautiful or brutal.
While on the surface, his need may not
seem to be marriage, if you can manage
to stay your own sweet, candid, unpre-

Idictable self, you might get a chance to
change his mind.

ROCK HUDSON — Strong and Soothing:
What’s in a name? This time, lots, for he’s
as strong, solid — and stubborn — as a slab
of black Vermont marble, and it would
take a landslide to ruffle his soothing
silence. Here’s a rare man who really
wants to be better than he is — not outside,
for that’s hardly possible — but inside. To
accomplish this, he needs to be left alone,
sometimes for weeks at a time — to sail,
hunt or hike, he’ll tell you, but really,
to think. This, he believes, is still a man’s
privilege in what is fast becoming a
woman’s world. No, he says, to too much
“together” — like trotting together, plotting
together, what-notting together. But if
you know how to play chess, or steal off to
a corner with some long, boring book
you’ve always meant to finish, he’s likely
to glance up from his own, at long last,
take a puff on his pipe and send you a
look that’ll curl your toes. And you may
not have to read all alone after that.

TROY DONAHUE — Campus Man: The
face may be new, but it’s as familiar as
an old dream — you know, the one where
you get asked to the prom by the captain
of the football team, who also happens to
be the president of the honor society. As
American as candied yams, he represents
a type gals yearn for the world over — a
friendly, calm, casual someone who wants
to be with you almost as often as you
want to be with him. He’ll carry your
packages, run your errands and write you
romantic little notes both before and after
he marries you. He’ll help you grow up,
and cherish you for yourself alone, no
matter what. But you can’t stalk him,
he’ll find you (or at least you’ll convince
him he did), and then you’ll take him
home to meet Mother — and he’ll love it.

FRANK SINATRA — Devil-May-Care:
The impact of “The Voice” that finally got
to be almost overshadowed by the impact
of “The Man” — the one whose appeal so
many have tried, in vain, to analyze. And
they’ve been no more successful than they
ever were with Garbo, for the quality they
share is, of course, Mystery. But he has
added a new twist, Danger, the indis-
pensable ingredient for any woman who
likes to believe — and almost convinces

herself — that there’s no tomorrow. The
female who gets through to him gets
there fast but often doesn’t stay too long.
If you’ve got what it takes to wear a solid
gold gown, fly a plane and drive a hard
bargain, then you’re his kind of girl. Only
don’t go crying home to mamma if you
never really get to understand him.

DWAYNE HICKMAN— No Square: If
you’ve a yen for a wise-guy, then you’ve
trouble, girl. You never know which card
is up, the ace or the joker. And no matter
which, it always seems like the laugh’s on
you in the end. He’s so good at playing
dumb, you just know he must be smart as
a whip, and you’re right. This one, believe
it or not, is an authority of sorts on Vic-
torian literature, but sometimes he acts
like he majored in The Funnies at col-
lege. And if you’re for him, you’ll want
it that way, because the second-best thing
you like is to laugh — even at yourself. And
as for the first-best thing, to be loved,
you may be lucky enough to discover
that the soul of a clown is very, very
serious.

ANDY WILLIAMS— Fine and Fair: The
most wholesome thing to come out of Iowa
since corn-on-the-cob, here’s a tonic you
don’t have to make a face to take. A refuge
for the lonely, the perplexed, the fright-
ened, he’ll always find you a double sil-
ver lining, with a few rainbows thrown in
for good measure. He’d see to it, in that
quiet, gentle, easy way of his, that you’d
never be hurt or uncomfortable or em-
barrassed by anything. Because his mis-
sion in life would be to make you happy,
never forgetting an anniversary or how
you take your coffee, commenting on a
new dress, singing to you at the drop of
a lace hanky. If you’re right for him, you
won’t have to prove it in any fancy way —
he’ll just know. And you’ll find out that
one of the most “forever” kinds of love can
start out by seeming brotherly.

DION OF THE BELMONTS — Young
and Rare: A singer who likes to work in
the comfortable confines of a trio is slowly
but reasonably beginning to emerge as a
solo. The shy type, he’s awkward with
girls. What can he ever say to them? Well,
if you’re meant for him, there’s no prob-
lem, for you’re a warm girl, a wise and
understanding girl who makes him feel ten
feet tall, because you always know just
when he needs a smile, a compliment, a
joke. And maybe, if time isn’t short, and
your patience is long, you’ll wait to be
both the first and the last love of his life.

How did you do on the quiz on page 50?
Just a little reminder, there is no such
thing as a “high" or “low” score, so if your
answers aren’t as honest as you can make
them, you’re only cheating yourself. No
bachelor is best, worst — or easy, but all
are fair game when you know your own
special target. — Ed.

SEE CARY GRANT IN U.I.’s “OPERATION PETTI-
COAT.” ROCK HUDSON CAN BE SEEN IN “PILLOW
TALK” FOR U.I. DON’T MISS TROY DONAHUE IN

“a summer place” and “the crowded sky”
for warners’. be sure to see bob evans in
“the best of everything” for 20th. see

DWAYNE HICKMAN EVERY TUESDAY ON CBS-TV,

8:30-9:00 p.m. est, appearing in “the many

LOVES OF DOBIE GILLIS.” HIS VOICE CAN BE

heard in Columbia’s “1001 Arabian

NIGHTS.” LISTEN TO ANDY WILLIAMS SING FOR
CADENCE RECORDS, DION AND THE BELMONTS
FOR LAURIE, AND HEAR FRANK SINATRA ON
CAPITOL, don’t MISS FRANK IN 20TH CENTURY -
fox’s “can-can.” he’s ALSO IN “never SO
few” for metro-goldwyn-mayer. don’t
miss frank’s special, February 15th, on
the abc-tv network, 9:30-10:30 p.m. est.

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All the news
that's hip
to print

jHontfjlp Jxecorti

By GEORGE

Vol. 2, No. 1

February, 1960

PHOTOPLAY MAKES AN ALBUM

PHOTOPUW;

PICKS THE GREAT LOVE THEMES FROM HOLLYWOOD

TARA S THEME from "GONE WITH THE WIND"
AROUND THE WORLD (In Eighty Days)

THREE COINS. IN THE FOUNTAIN
AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER V LAURA
THEME FROM PICNIC - MOONGIGW

LA VIE EN ROSE V FASCINATION
HMLIU, HUO * MAM'SEUE
THE MOON OF MANAKOORA
ISN’T IT ROMANTIC

T T ave you ever browsed through a
record store and wondered.
"Gee, wouldn’t it be great to make
one big album with all my own movie
favorites on it?" We have.

In fact, we liked the idea so much
that we went ahead. That’s it above.
At first, there was such a storm in the
office because everyone wanted to in-
clude their own particular favorites.
Finally, we narrowed it down to
twelve — six on a side — of what we
think are the top love themes from
the top motion pictures.

The Warner Brothers recording ex-
ecutives liked them, too. So suddenly,
there we were, making our own rec-
ord. It was tremendous fun! We final-
p ly included themes from “Gone With
the Wind," “Picnic,” “The Razor’s
Edge,” “Hurricane,” “An Affair to

Remember,” “Sabrina,” “Laura,”
“Love in the Afternoon,” “Around
the World in 80 Days,” “Lili,” “Three
Coins in the Lountain” and “To the
Victor.”

Anyway, as soon as we could, we
all crowded into a studio to hear the
“master” — that’s the record all the
others are made from. It sounded
great! We found we had everything
from the full symphonic scope of
Muir Mathieson conducting the Sin-
fonia of London to the exotic Ha-
waiian style of “The Outriggers.” It
was good having so many selections
instead of just one type of music or
one artist.

Almost every top music composer
is included — Rodgers and Hart,
Lrank Loesser, Victor Young, Sammy
Cahn and others. Hope you enjoy it.

have you heard...

What They’re Playing: Johnny
Mathis’ great album, “Heavenly”
(Columbia I . . . . “Sixty Years of Mu-
sic America Loves Best” (RCA), a
roundup of music-making from Ca-
ruso to Belafonte. . . . “Let’s All
Sing With The Chipmunks” (Liber-
ty), featuring Simon, Theodore — and
Alvin, natch. . . . “50,000,000 Elvis
Lans Can’t Be Wrong” (RCA), the
second volume of El’s golden records.
. . . “Swingin’ on a Rainbow” (Chan-
cellor), with Lrankie Shy-Guy Ava-
lon. . . . “Connie Lrancis Sings Italian
Lavorites” (M-G-M ) , which will prob-
ably be a classic. . . . Andy Williams’
“Lonely Street” album (Cadence),
probably Andy’s best!

What They’re Doing: Gary Cros-
by’s dating Lrank Sinatra’s pretty
daughter, Nancy. . . . Just look into
Paul Anka’s blue eyes and you’ll know
why he’s written all of Annette’s songs
for the album she’ll be bringing out
real soon. . . . Everybody’s watching
Johnny Preston’s recording of “Run-
ning Bear” climb the charts. . . . Cliff
Richard (his big hit’s “Livin’ Doll”)
is seventeen-years-old, lives in Lon-
don and wants, more than anything,
to come to the States and meet his fans.
But his folks say no to a visit till he
turns eighteen. . . . Those Rookie
Coasters! What do you think of their
“WhatAboutUs”? It was ( Continued )

written by
MikeStoller
and Jerry
L i e b e r
( who wrote
“Hound
Dog” for El
and “Love
Potion
Number 9”
for the Clo-
vers). I like the flip side, “Run Red
Run,” too! . . . Sal Mineo’s beating
the drums more than ever. Sal says
he got lots of inspiration from Gene
Krupa during the filming of “The
Gene Krupa Story.” Sal played Gene
in the movie, and it was an ambition
come true. As a kid, Sal used to
haunt the theaters where Gene
played.

What They’re Saying . . . Every
day, soon as my ABC Radio show,
“Teen Town,” comes to a close. I sip
a soda or a hot chocolate with my
daily guest, and sometimes those off-
air comments are pretty revealing.
For instance: Frankie Avalon: “First
thing I notice about a girl at a hop
is her smile. It makes me feel good
and helps me get up my nerve to ask
for a dance.” . . . Gary Troxell of
The Fleetwoods: “One of the reasons
Jennifer (his steady) told me she
liked me was that I wasn’t ashamed
to meet her parents.” . . . Connie
Francis: “I wish people would play
happy records when they get up in
the morning, if they’re in a depressed
mood. I always play ‘I’m Sittin’ on
Top of the World’ if I’m blue — and it
always makes me feel great!” . . .

Sal’s got a dream-come-lrue.

Santo
and
Johnny
Etc.

Oanto Farina is twenty-one and plays
^ the steel guitar; Johnny is nine-
teen and plays the electric guitar.
And in my opinion, their new record,
“Teardrop,” and their album, “Santo
and Johnny,” make them the year’s
most promising instrumentalists.

The brothers live at home, love to
shop for sports clothes and are both
wild about lasagna. Santo’s favorite
hobby, besides playing the guitar, is
looking after the 350 pigeons he
keeps on the roof of their Brooklyn
apartment house. Santo says, “You
learn so much about life watching
those pigeons live — honest. You never
have a dull moment.”

Johnny has quite a few pets to look
after, too: two dogs — a German
shepherd and a small terrier; a ham-
ster; two ducks named Tom and
jerry; his tropical fish; three para-
keets; two turtles and a cat.

PARTY TALK

February’s a month of holidays —
good excuses for a party. So polish
up on your party talk.

What makes a good conversational-
ist? First of all enthusiasm for what
you're talking about. But what can
two people, suddenly meeting each
other for the first time, discuss? A
new movie or book or record, a nice
tie a fellow has on, or school doings.

Remember to add specifics. Don't
just say, “I saw a good movie.” But
add, “Pat Boone really looked scared
when he descended into the earth. . . .”

To help get a guy started in conver-
sation— if he’s shy — try being patient
and listening — and ask questions.

If you’re not sure of what you want
to say, then let the other person ride
the talk-pedal. And if you talk too
fast, look out — or you’ll end up talk-
ing only to yourself.

Shari’s

Corner

Hi Gang —

I’ve got lots of things to tell you
this month, especially about the many
phone calls I had from our friends in
recordsville. A couple of weeks ago,
I received a call from the Cricketts,
the late Buddy Holly’s group. “We’re
in town to cut a new album for Bruns-
wick,” they told me. “Come on along
to the session.” So off I went. The
session came off great and, afterwards,
Joe B. Mauldin, Jerry Allison, Sonny
Curtis and Earl Henry, the new lead
singer, all came over to my house,
where Mom cooked us some spaghetti.

A few days later. The Diamonds, in
town to promote their new record,
“Walking the Stroll,” called. “How
about us all meeting for dinner?”
Dave Som-
erville, the
lead singer,
s uggested.

We all met
at Tops and
did they
look hand-
s o m e in
their sweat-
ers — white
with red
diamonds. “We’ve been on tour back
East,” Evans Fisher, the tenor, told
me. “And are we worn out!” said
John Felton, the baritone. Then we
drove up to see my new house. We
piled into their station wagon and off
we went — I had to tell them we could
only see the outside, because I didn’t
have a key. The next thing I knew,
Mike Douglas, the bass singer, was
hanging out the window, waving at
us. “How did you get in?” I cried.
“I’m handy at picking locks,” he
laughed.

Bobby Rydell called to suggest a
swim, and I met him at the High-
lander Motel, where he was staying.
I met him in the parking lot and we
both headed straight (Continued)

Bobby: Something fishy?

tE3)e iHontfjlp Eecorb continued

What’s in the Stars?

PUZZLE

Shari's Corner

Were you born be-
tween January 21st
and February 19th?
Then you belong to
the eleventh sign of
zodiac, Aquarius.
Other Aquarians are
Donna Reed (Jan. 27), Dorothy Ma-
lone and David Wayne (Jan. 30),
Fabian (Feb. 6), Jack Lemmon and
Lana Turner (Feb. 8), Carol Lynley
and Kim Novak (Feb. 13), Dodie
Stevens (Feb. 17), Dane Clark (Feb.
18).

The clue to your personality is your
generosity. You like giving help, time
and gifts to friends and acquaint-
ances, but are occasionally hurt when
they aren’t thoughtful of you and
your needs. Yet
there’s nothing you
can do about this
because you're not
happy unless you’re
helping others,
whether they hurt
you or not.

When it comes to romance, you
have such high ideals that you’re
often disappointed. You must re-
member that love can never be per-
fect; so try to strike a happy medium
between a “dream love” and a “real
love.”

You’re excellent with details, a
leader with determination and you
have a talent for
acting.

You have a funny
tendency to hold
back from saying
the things you be-
lieve, because you
don’t want people
to think you’re “different.” You
shouldn’t be afraid to express your-
self. Aquarians usually make good
sense about what they believe because
they’ve mulled it all over in their
minds for days.

You like tradition, would prefer a
p comfortable old-fashioned kitchen to
a gadgety modern one. Your lucky
number is four.

Lana

Kim

Dodie

ACROSS

4. He sings in the movie "Can Can"

6. He wants to know "Why" (init.)

8. Former baseball player

10. "We Got Love," says he

11. His is "The Sweetest Music This Side of
Heaven" (init.)

14. " Talk"

15. Father of 16 across (init.)

16. His plea: "I Wanna Be Loved"

DOWN

1. The Pride of Canada

2. "Dance With Me," they say

3. Go Go (pictured)

5. She's "Unforgettable"

7. He digs hats (init.)

9. " Beat"

12. "Primrose "

13. Bobby Darin's record label

Can You Guess This Star’s Name?

■jjiS 9iu-99s-piiD-dn-3uioo ay; ‘tsajt

Continued

for the pool. He looked great in his
white trunks and blue terry-cloth
shirt. “Last one in’s a chicken,”
Bobby shouted. I didn’t have to
worry, though, because when Bobby
dove in, he pulled me with him. And
talk about a fish in the water. I was
just trying to catch my breath when
Bobby swam underwater. Catching
me by the legs, he picked me up, then
tossed me over his head. As we were
driving home, later on, Bobby told
me he had no steady girl but that,
like his new record, “I dig girls.”
Then, turning a corner, Bobby just
missed a bus. “Almost hit that little
bus,” he laughed. “Little!” I gasped,
still trying to catch my breath.

The rumors are flying that Rick
Nelson may change his recording
style to pop. I saw Rick, driving
about in his new red sports car, and
asked him about it. “I’ve been think-
ing about it,” he said. “A change is
good for everyone.” I told him I
liked the powder blue sweater he was
wearing and he said he’d just bought
it that day. “For a special date?” I
asked. “No,” he said. “I’m still play-
ing the field.”

Looks like Edd Byrnes is altar-
bound with Asa Maynor. I got this
information from Kookie’s close
friend, actor John Ashley. Good luck,
Kookie !

Boy, talk about a ginchy date. The
Four Preps have a system they call
the Jet Age Romance. Glen Larson,
one of the Preps, phoned me and told
me how he picked up his date at 5:30
in the afternoon in Los Angeles and
had dinner with her in San Francisco
an hour later. Can you imagine the
surprised look on the face of Carol
Garley, an Arcadia High student,
when she asked “Where are we go-
ing?” and Glen told her? “But I had
her home by her 12 o’clock curfew,”
Glen added.

See you next month, gang. And
till then, please be good and do
behave.

— Shari Sheeley

a i r

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APRIL 25

vis’ own story

DIDNT KNOW
GROWN MAN
OULD CRY

anne Lennon

>W I KNEW
WAS LOVE

z Taylor

WAYS PUNISH

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HAVE A BREATH OF PARIS ABOUT YOU-EVERY DAY!

There’s no doubt about it! Whichever way you enjoy your deodorant;
luscious roll-on lotion to roll your perspiration worries away; or con-
venient, fabulous stick that applies dry to keep you dry — you’ll prefer
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EVENING IN PAMS DEODORANT ROLbR OR STICK 2 FOR I

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For store and free booklet write Olga, Dept.
PH40,7915 Haskell,Van Nuys,Cal.(pat.pen.)

APRIL, 1960

VOL. 57, NO. 4

FAVORITE OF AMERICAS MOVIEGOERS FOR OVER FORTY YEARS

ANNETTE FUNICELLO
and PAUL ANKA

MIDWINTER BONUS

46 Learn How to Waltz with Annette and Paul (#2 in a series)

DIANE BAKER 60 Improve Your Figure From the Bottom Up

EXCLUSIVE

LIZ TAYLOR 34 Does God Always Punish? by Charlotte Dinter

ELVIS PRESLEY 42 Why I’ve Changed by Elvis

ARTICLES AND SPECIAL FEATURES

EDD BYRNES

Where’s Kookie Going?

SANDRA DEE

Strictly Personal by Nancy Anderson

NICK ADAMS

Does She Really Want a Divorce?

by Marcia Borie

INGRID BERGMAN

The Children Everybody Stares

BOBBY DARIN

Wise Guy by Kirtley Baskette

DIANNE LENNON

. . . We Knew It Was Love

by Jim

Hoffman

CARY GRANT

Confidential File by Sara Hamiltoi

DEBBIE REYNOLDS

“Come On In, The Party’s for

You”

by Susan Sturies

DINAH SHORE

1 Hope My Daughter Missy Makes the Same Mistake 1 Did

by Arlene Johnson

JOAN COLLINS

Nothing Matters When You’re

in Love

by George Christy

CONNIE STEVENS

To Me She Was a Stranger

by Bill T usher

YOUNG IDEAS

Readers Inc.

Where to Buy

Your Needlework

Becoming Attractions

Your Monthly Ballot

Answers to March’s Puzzle

95 Monthly Record

NEWS AND REVIEWS

Hollywood ForYou bySkolsky

Now Playing (Brief Reviews)

Casts of Current Pictures

Go Out to a Movie

22 Inside Stuff by Sara Hamilton
COVER PHOTO: Liz Taylor courtesy of M-G-M

EVELYN PAIN, Editor

claire safran, Managing Editor

andree brooks, Associate Editor

tobi feldstein. Assistant Editor

jim hoffman, vivien mazzone, Contributing Editors

anne kanes, Assistant to Editor

KENNETH CUNNINGHAM, Art Director
NORMAN SIEGEL, West Coast Editor

kate palumbo. Fashion Editor
JUNE CLARK, Beauty Editor
rocer marshutz. Staff Photographer
joan cl^rke. Assistant Art Director
marcia borie, West Coast Contributor

Your May issue will be on sale at your newsstand on April 5th

Photoplay is Published Monthly by Macfadden Publications, Inc., New York, N. Y.

Subscription Rates: $2.50 one year, $4.00 two years, $5.50 three years in U. S., its possessions and Canada.
$5.00 per year all other countries.

Foreign editions handled through Macfadden Publications International Corp., 205 East 42nd Street, New York
17 N. Y. Irving S. Manheimer, President; Douglas Lockhart, Vice-President.

Re-entered as Second Class matter May 10, 1946 at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March
3 1879. Second-class postage paid at New York, N. Y., and other post offices. Authorized as Second Class
Mail P. O. Dept., Ottawa, Ont., Canada. Copyright 1960 by Macfadden Publications, Inc. All rights reserved^
Copyright under the Universal Copyright Convention and International Copyright Convention. Copyright reserved
under Pan American Copyright Convention. Todos derechos reservados segun la Convencion Panamericana de
Propiedad Literaria y Artistica. Title trademark registered in U. S. Patent Office. Printed in U. S. A. by Art Color
Printing Company. Member of True Story Women’s Group.

SIGNE HASSO says: “So often Miss Signe Hasso, international dramatic star

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THAT’S

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W" }■:

HOLLYWOOD

'i?

FOR YOU

; mil * Ti

Ipeffilp IP f f

-US 1 1 1

ISmmB' f mr

BY SIDNEY SKOLSKY

1 a;

David Ladd has to pay a penalty.

T wonder if Tuesday Weld thinks
A Beverly Aadland is a wild kid. . . .
“Suddenly, Last Summer” is the only
movie I know that qualifies to be on
the Diners Club. If you don’t under-
stand this joke, see the movie. . . .
I’ll say there’s nothing small about
Tina Louise except her first name. . . .
Intense is the word for Tony Perkins.
. . . I know of no actress I’d rather
watch on the screen than Simone
Signoret; I know of no actress I’d
rather listen to in the living room
than Simone Signoret. ... If the
Academy doesn’t award Signoret the
Oscar, they didn’t give it for the Best
Performance by an actress. . . . Who
ever believed that Mamie Van Doren
would wind up better than Charlie?

. . . Gloria Grahame has returned to
the Hollywood scene. She is as sexy
as ever, although she manages to
speak as if her upper lip is novo-
cained. ... I thought Cyd Charisse
on TV was foolish to be glamorous
one minute and the next minute have
husband Tony Martin ask if she sent
his shirts to the laundry. . . . I’d say
that Cary Grant has come closer than
Ponce de Leon to discovering the
Fountain of Youth. . . . Shirley Mac-
Laine is becoming less pixie and more
organized. . . . Sometimes Tommy
Sands gives the impression that Elvis
is listening to him sing. . . . Starlet
Roberta Tennes tells me you can
never tell what a fellow has in mind
when he asks for a date in this town.

Is Jerry's bad dream coming true?

He may be thinking of romance, or
he may just want to get his name in
the papers.

Eddie likes Liz plump. . . . Zsa Zsa
Gabor has the faculty of making a
stranger feel he’s an intimate friend,
which may be why she has so many.
. . . I wonder if Grace Kelly acts like
a princess, now that she actually is
one. . . . Robert Mitchum is said to
sleep with his eyes wide-open. . . .
Since actors became producers, there
are more movie heroes. ... I caught

Someone special listens to Tommy.

Marilyn Monroe actually reading an
Arthur Miller play. ... All rock ’n’
roll music sounds to me as if it were
written by the same man. . . . Bar-
bara Nichols, after attending the
wedding of an actress-friend: “I hope
she doesn’t spill anything on her
wedding gown. She’s only worn it
once.”

I insist Jayne Mansfield is the girl-
next-door to someone. . . . Marriage
hasn’t fattened up Vera-Ellen. . . .
What’s the difference ( Continued )

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To Frank, the world's divided in two parts. Which half do you belong to?

between a Frank Sinatra TV special
with guests Bing Crosby and Dean
Martin and a Dean Martin TV spe-
cial with guests Frank Sinatra and
Bing Crosby? Answer: The com-
mercials. ... I don’t understand
people who pan Marlon Brando for
spending so much time and money
on “One-Eyed Jacks.” These people
should be interested only in, “Is it a
good movie?” . . . Steve McQueen
insists he doesn’t talk mumbly; peo-
ple listen mumbly. . . . Nothing makes
an actress feel more like an actress
than a fur coat. As new evidence for
this remark. I cite Carolyn Jones, who
has six fur coats, and Joan Collins,
who practically sleeps in hers. . . .
Wouldn’t you like to see Peter Gunn
hiring Richard Diamond or Perry-
Mason to solve a personal problem?
. . . J ulie London is as honest as she
is shy. . . . Nick Adams works hard
at being sincere. . . . Sinatra believes
one is hip or one is square, and that’s
all there is to it. . . . By the way, put-

Does Bob know what Norma thinks?

ting things IN and OUT is now con-
sidered OUT. ... I wonder what
Norma Shearer honestly thinks of
today’s movie stars. . . . And I won-
der if today’s movie stars (Carol
Lynley, France Nuyen, Pat Wayne,
etc. ) ever heard of Norma Shearer.

Rhonda Fleming always seems on
the point of hitting it big. . . . Sophia
Loren wears a man’s wristwatch. . . .
I’ve visited Shelley Winters on sets
and, personally. I've never found her
to be temperamental. Although I’ve
watched her being temperamental. . . .
Barrie Chase can’t watch a dancer
without moving her toes. . . . On the
credit side of the Hollywood ledger
you've got to list that it always im-
proves Jack Paar’s shows. ... I wish
The Clan would officially elect officers
and collect dues. ... I believe Sal
Mineo designs his own suits. Who
else? . . . Lenny Bruce says that
after they cleaned up “The Gene
Krupa Story,” Sal Mineo found out
he was portraying Lawrence Welk.

I believe Tab Hunter would have
been tabbed a better actor if he
hadn’t been named Tab. . . . Jerry
Lewis had a bad dream the other
night. He dreamed Dean Martin left
him. went on his own, and was a
bigger hit. . . . Then Jerry woke up
out of a cold sweat to realize it was
true. . . . Kim Novak is now more
pre-occupied with her acting than her
looks, which hinders her acting. . . .
Hollywood is a place where a school-
teacher made David Ladd, because
he didn’t do his homework, write on
the blackboard a hundred times — “I
don’t deserve to be a star.” That’s
Hollywood For You.

OF CURRENT PICTURES

BABETTE GOES TO WAR— Columbia. Di-
rected by Christian-Jaque: Babette, Brigitte Bar-
dot; Gerard, Jacques Charrier; Von Arenberg,
Hannes Messemer; Captain Darcy, Yves Vincent;
Fitzpatrick, Ronald Howard; Schulz, Francis
Blanche; Loins, Rene Harvard.

CHANCE MEETING — Paramount. Directed by
Joseph Losey: Jan Van Rooyen, Hardy Kruger;
Inspector Morgan, Stanley Baker; Jacqueline
Cousteau, Micheline Presle; Inspector W estover,
John Van Eyssen; Sergeant, Gordon Jackson; Sir
Brian Lewis, Robert Flemyng.

DOG OF FLANDERS, A— 20th. Directed by
James B. Clark: Nello, David Ladd; Daas, Don-
ald Crisp; Piet, Theodore Bikel; Mr. Cogez, Max
Croiset; Corrie, Monique Ahrens.

GUNS OF THE T IMBERLAN D — Warners. Di-
rected by Robert D. Webb: Jim Hadley, Alan
Ladd; Laura Riley, Jeanne Crain; Monty Welker,
Gilbert Roland; Bert Harvey, Frankie Avalon;
Clay Bell, Lyle Bettger; Blackie, Noah Beery;
Aunt Sarah, Verna Felton; Jane Peterson, Alana
Ladd; Sheriff1 Taylor, Regis Toomey.

HELL BENT FOR LEATHER — U-l. Directed
by George Sherman: Clay Santell, Audie Murphy;
Janet Gifford, Felicia Farr; Harry Deckett,
Stephen McNally; Ambrose, Robert Middleton;
Moon, Rad Fulton; Travers, Jan Merlin; Nate
Perrick, Herbert Rudley; Old Ben, John Qualen.

The Opposite Sex
and Ybur Perspiration

Q. Do you know there are two
kinds of perspiration?

HOME FROM THE HILL — M-G-M. Directed
by Vincente Minnelli: Capt. Wade Hunnicutt,
Robert Mitchum; Hannah Hunnicutt, Eleanor
Parker; Rafe Copley, George Peppard; T heron,
George Hamilton; Albert Halstead, Everett
Sloane; Libby Halstead, Luana Patten; Sarah
Halstead, Anne Seymour; Opal Bixby, Constance
Ford; Chauncey, Ken Renard; Dr. Reuben Car-
son, Ray Teal.

LAST VOYAGE, THE— M-G-M. Directed by
Andrew L. Stone: Cliff Henderson, Robert Stack;
Laurie Henderson, Dorothy Malone; Captain Ad-
ams, George Sanders; Second Engineer Walsh,
Edmond O’Brien; Hank Lawson, Woody Strode;
Jill Henderson, Tammy Marihugh.

ONCE MORE, WITH FEELING — Columbia.
Directed by Stanley Donen: Victor Fabian, Yul
Brynner; Dolly Fabian, Kay Kendall; Maxwell
Archer, Gregory Ratoff; Dr. Hilliard, Geoffrey
Toone; Mr. Wilbur, Jr., Mervyn Johns.

RISE AND FALL OF LEGS DIAMOND, THE
— Warners. Directed by Budd Boetticher: Legs
Diamond, Ray Danton; Alice, Karen Steele;
Monica, Elaine Stewart; Leo Bremer, Jesse White;
Lt. Moody, Simon Oakland; Arnold, Robert Low-
ery; Fats Walsh, Judson Pratt; Eddie Diamond,
Warren Oates; Chairman, Frank DeKova; Sgt.
Cassidy, Gordon Jones; Matt Moran, Joseph Rus-
kin; Dixie, Diane Cannon; Vince Coll, Richard
Gardner.

SEVEN TH I EVES — 20th. Directed by Henry
Hathaway: Theo Wilkins, Edward G. Robinson;
Paul, Rod Steiger; Melanie, Joan Collins; Pan-
cho, Eli Wallach; Raymond Le May, Alexander
Scourby; Louis, Michael Dante; Hugo Baurner,
Berry Kroeger.

SINK THE BISMARCK! — 20th. Directed by
Lewis Gilbert: Captain Shepard, Kenneth More;
Anne Davis, Dana Wynter; Captain Lindemann,
Carl Mohner; First Sea Lord, Laurence Nai-
smith; A.C.N.S., Geoffrey Keen; Admiral Lut-
jens, Karel Stepanek.

SWAN LAKE — Columbia. Directed by Z. Tu-
lubyeva : Odetta, Odxllia, Maya Plisetskaya; The
Prince, Nicolai Fadeyechev; The Evil Spirit,
Vladimir Levashev; The Jester, V. Khomyakov.

A. It’s true! One is “physical,”
caused by work or exertion; the
other is "nervous,” stimulated by
emotional excitement. It’s the
kind that comes in tender mo-
ments with the "opposite sex.”

Q. How can you overcome this
"emotional" perspiration?

A. Science says a deodorant needs
a special ingredient specifically
formulated to overcome this
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exclusive Perstop*. So effective,
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A. The "emotional” kind. Doc-
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SUM

Q. Why is arrid cream America's
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THIRD VOICE, THE — 20th. Directed by Hu-
bert Cornfield: Voice, Edmond O’Brien; Marian
Forbes, Laraine Day; Corey Scott, Julie London;
Harris Chapman, Ralph Brooks; Carlos, Eddie
Le Baron; Carreras’ Secretary, Shirley O’Hara;
Blonde, Olga San Juan.

TOBY TYLER — Buena Vista. Directed by
Charles Barton: Toby Tyler, Kevin Corcoran;
Ben Cotter, Henry Calvin; Sam Treat, Gene
Sheldon; Harry Tapper, Bob Sweeney; Col. Sam
Castle, Richard Eastham; Jim Weaver, James
Drury; Mademoiselle Jeanette, Barbara Beaird;
Monsieur Ajax, Dennis Joel; Aunt Olive, Edith
Evanson; Uncle Daniel, Tom Fadden; Band-
leader, Ollie Wallace.

WORLD OF APU, THE — Harrison. Directed
by Satyajit Ray: Apu, Soumitra Chatterjee;
Aparna, Sarmila Tagore; Kajol, Smn. Alok Chak-
ravarty; Pulu, Swapan Mukherji.

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a 24-page book explaining menstruation
is yours, FREE. Write Dep't B-40, Box 280
New York 18, N. Y. (Sent in plain wrapper)

For fuller reviews see Photoplay for the months
indicated. For full reviews this month, see
page 18. (a — adult f — family)

BEN-HUR — M-G-M; Camera 65, Technicolor:
This epic of Roman imperialism, Jewish pa-
triotism and Christianity's beginnings is the
best of the big pictures about Bible days. Charl-
ton Heston and Haya Harareet as Judeans,
Stephen Boyd and Jack Hawkins as Romans
stand out in a story that has not only historic
excitement hut ageless emotions and ideas.
(F) February

BRAMBLE BUSH, THE— Warners: Those
naughty New England towns! In his home
burg, doctor Richard Burton finds an amazing
(if unconvincing) variety of scandals. Barbara
Rush and Angie Dickinson are two of the peo-
ple involved. (A) March

CASH McCALL — Warners, Technicolor: Jim
Garner plays it light even on Wall Street, as a
tycoon scheming for more money and Natalie
Wood. Nina Foch schemes for Jim. (F) March

FLYING FONTAINES, THE— Columbia: New
young players Michael Callan. Evy Norlund
anil Rian Garrick brighten a mild circus .yarn,
all about the tangled love lives of the boys and
girls on the flying trapeze. (F) February

GAZEBO. THE — M-G-M. CinemaScope: Gabby
but funny farce. Glenn Ford decides to plant
a dead blackmailer under the little backyard
pavilion (yep. the gazebo) wife Debbie Reyn-
olds bought. (F) March

GENE KRUPA STORY, THE— Columbia:
Plentiful jazz and eager young players liven
up a routine biography. Sal Mineo works hard
as Krupa. hut Jimmy Darren comes off better
as his pal. Susan Kohner’s the gal. (A) March

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY— U. A.: David Niv-
en's hilarious as a fanatical TV-hater. hut the
chief joke of this thin comedy is less funny, as
he endangers his twelve-year marriage to Mitzi
Gaynor by babbling about their courtship.
(A) January

JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF THE
EARTH — 20th; CinemaScope, De Luxe Color:
Delightful, tongue-in-cheek version of Jules
Verne's adventure yarn. James Mason, Pat
Boone and Arlene Dahl are underground ex-
plorers; Diane Baker is Pat’s hack-home girl.
(F) March

LLL ABNER — Paramount; VistaVision. Tech-
nicolor: Big. bouncy musical, done with lots
of style and color, brings you that crazy
gang from Dogpatch. Some are strictly from
comicsville; some are real good-looking — like
Peter Palmer, Leslie Parrish, Julie Newmar.
(F) January

MIRACLE. THE — Warners; Technirama, Tech-
nicolor: Sweeping romance of 19th Century
Spain gives Carroll Baker a dream role as
a postulant who leaves the convent, finds
adventure — and men. The part calls for an
old-fashioned glamour queen. Carroll isn't.
(F) January

NEVER SO FEW — M-G-M; CinemaScope, Met-
rocolor: Guerrilla commander Frank Sinatra
swashbuckles around the Burma jungle fight-
ing the Japanese. His colorful pals include
Gina Lollobrigida, Steve McQueen, Peter Law-
ford. (A) March

ON THE BEACH — U.A.: Frighteningly real-
istic picture of 1964, intended to scare us into
thinking — and action. In Australia, Ava Gard-
ner, Gregory Peck, Fred Astaire, Tony Perkins,
Donna Anderson await the radio-active doom
that’s hit everyone else. (F) January

OPERATION PETTICOAT— U-I. Eastman Col-
or: Upright officer Cary Grant and slick opera-
tor Tony Curtis team up for laughs, on a World
War II sub that takes aboard nurses Dina
Merrill, Joan O'Brien. (F) January

OUR MAN IN HAVANA — Columbia, Cinema-
Scope: Spy melodramas and the British Secret
Service are kidded by such experts as Noel
Coward (an agent) and Alec Guinness (the
mild salesman drafted to snoop). (F) March

SOLOMON AND SHEBA— U.A.; Technirama,
Technicolor: Israelite-Egyptian battles and
Brynner-Lollohrigida love scenes keep the bii'
screen jammed with color and action, romance
and religious sentiment. (A) March

STORY ON PAGE ONE, THE— 20th, Cinema-
Scope: Realistic courtroom drama, well-acted
by Rita Hayworth, Gig Young (on trial for
murder), Tony Franciosa (their lawyer), Mil-
dred Dunnock (Gig's Mom). (A) March

SUDDENLY, LAST SUMMER— Columbia :
Highbrow horror movie gives Liz Taylor a
powerful role as a girl put into a mental hos-
pital for knowing too much about Katharine
Hepburn’s dead son. Doctor Monty Clift slowly
unearths the shocking truth. (A) March

THIRD MAN ON THE MOUNTAIN— Buena
Vista. Technicolor: Exhilarating yarn about
mountain-climbing finds James MacArthur dar-
ing a Swiss peak never scaled before, with
Janet Munro to cheer him on. (F) December

TIGER BAY — Continental: Tingling English
suspense hit introduces eleven-year-old charm-
er Hayley Mills, as a slum tomboy who trails
along with handsome Horst Buchholz in his
flight from a murder rap. (F) March

TOUCH OF LARCENY. A — Paramount: Good
fun springs from British navy officer James
Mason's quick-money scheme. He’ll frame him-
self for treason, sue the newspapers for libel
and win Vera Miles from rich, stuffy George
Sanders. Pretty clever! — maybe. (F) February

WHO WAS THAT LADY?— Columbia: Wacky
excitement follows the fib (dreamed up by
Dean Martin) that Tony Curtis tells Janet
Leigh, his onscreen wife, too. Tony claims to
be an undercover FBI agent! (F) March

AT ACADEMY AWARD TIME...

Lustre-Creme Shampoo salutes these beautiful stars
who have made this the greatest movie season ever!

SANDRA DEE, co-starring in
"Imitation of Life”

A Universal-International Picture

LANA TURNER, starring in

"Imitation of Life”

A Universal-International Picture

SUSAN KOHNER, co-starring in
"Imitation of Life”

A Universal-International Picture

BARBARA RUSH, co-starring in

"The Young Philadelphians”

A Warner Bros. Picture

MILLIE PERKINS, starring in
“The Diary of Anne Frank”

A 20th Century-Fox Picture

MARTHA HYER, co-starring in
“The Big Fisherman"

A Rowland V. Lee Production

SIMONE SIGNORET, starring in
“Room at the Top.” Released through
Continental Distributing, Inc.

DORIS DAY, starring in “Pillow Talk”

An Arwin Production
A Universal-International Picture

AUDREY HEPBURN, starring in
“The Nun’s Story"

A Warner Bros. Picture

SHIRLEY MacLAINE, co-starring in “Career”
A Hal Wallis Production
A Paramount Picture

ELIZABETH TAYLOR, starring in Horizon-
American Pictures’ "Suddenly Last Summer”
A Columbia Pictures Corp. Release

JOANNE WOODWARD, starring in
“The Sound and the Fury”

A 20th Century-Fox Picture "

LEE REMICK, co-starring in “Anatomy
of a Murder.” Carlyle Productions
A Columbia Pictures Corp. Release

VERA MILES, co-starring in
"The FBI Story”

A Warner Bros. Picture

DEBORAH KERR, starring in Jerry Wald’s
Production "Beloved Infidel"
Released by 20th Century-Fox

HAYA HARAREET, co-starring in
Metro-Goldwyn- Mayer's

“Ben-Hur”

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DEAR MISS PAIN:

What do boys think of girls who always
have their girlfriends with them? I've
just moved into a new town and it seems
that the girls go everywhere together.
We pick each other up on the tvay to
school in the morning and walk home
together at night and even meet between
classes. I don't see how a boy ever gets
a chance to talk to a girl alone.

Ai.ison

Alexandria, La.

Dear Alison:

This sort of togetherness only leads to
solitary Saturday nights, so arrange to take
a few solo walks. But do it tactfully. Girl-
friends are important, too.

DEAR EDITOR:

The town I live in isn’t too big and there
isn’t much for kids to do on dates except
go to parties. I’ve just begun going out
with boys and pretty soon I’ll have to
give a party. What I wonder is what kind
of party do hoys like Lest?

Teresa

Elkhart, Indiana

Dear Teresa:

We party-polled Sal Mineo, Tommy
Sands and Ricky Nelson, whose votes for
the hostess with the mostest goes to the
one whose parties get off to a fast start.
Plan some activity — dancing, charades, a
record quiz, anything that will relax your
guests and keep them circulating. As you
get older, Sal added, you sometimes prefer
a quiet party where you can sit around and
talk . . . hut even then, have some records
ready to play, in case conversation lags.

DEAR EVELYN:

I have a problem that’s making me mis-
erable. There’s some hair growing on my
face, right above my lip, and because I
have very black hair it’s awfully notice-
able. In fact, at school, boys shout out,
“Hey, get a shave.” My mother says it
doesn’t look that bad and I shouldn’t
mind what they say, but I do and it makes
me cry when they say it. Is there any-
thing I can possibly do about this?

Enid

Freeport, 111.

Dear Enid:

Lots of girls have this problem but,
you’re right, it is more noticeable on bru-
nettes. Hair that is dark, but neither coarse
nor thick, can be made less conspicuous by
bleaching. You can find hair lighteners at
cosmetic counters. Coarser, more noticeable
hair can be creamed away with a gentle
hair remover especially designed for the
sensitive skin of the face. Don’t be tempted
to shave facial hair. It’s the sliced off tip
that makes regrowth bristly. Cream depila-
tories dissolve hair a little below the sur-
face of the skin, so it reappears more
slowly and with soft tapered ends. No
tweezing, please. Hair that’s pulled out
may stay away longer, but roots are
strengthened and a heavier regrowth encour-
aged. Often, inconspicuous fuzz is tweezed
along with noticeable hairs and it, too,
may become coarsened.

DEAR MISS PAIN:

Help! The spring dance is coming up and
I’ve got a date for it. (I’m fourteen and
it’s my first big dance, so it’s real impor-
tant.) My problem is that two other boys
asked me to go, too. Wouldn’t you know
it? I probably won’t get asked to another
one all year. Anyway, when I said I'd al-
ready been invited they wanted to know
if I’d dance with them that night. Now
what I want to know is, can I say yes? Or
should I tell them to talk to my date?

Betty

Nanticoke, Pa.

Dear Betty:

Just say you'd love to and you'll see them
at the dance. That’s when they should ask
permission of you and your date — either
during intermission or when they cut in
on the dance floor.

DEAR EDITOR:

I am fourteen years old and very much in
love with Dave. I know he really loves
me too, but he doesn’t want anyone to
know, not even his own brother. What am
I to do? String along or ask him if he
does really love me even though it is his
place to tell me. Please publish this letter.
It means so much to me.

R. G.

Chillicothe, Ohio

Dear Ruth :

There’s an old saying — give a man enough
rope and he’ll hang himself ... or declare
his intentions. So string along until he
does. And since it is his place to tell you
how he feels, you’d be wise to keep your
heart in its right place — and that’s not on
your sleeve.

DEAR MISS PAIN:

I have been going steady with this one
boy for over a year, but all winter he
has not paid any attention to me at all.
I like him very much. What should I do?

Heartbroken

California

Dear Heartbroken:

It takes two to go steady and you lost
your partner three months ago. So face the
fact and start mending that broken heart
by dating some boys who will pay attention
to you.

DEAR EVELYN:

Every boy I meet keeps saying that I look
like Brigitte Bardot. I get deeply embar-
rassed because my girlfriends disagree
and they start an argument. Although I
disagree also, I just thank them, but the
girls say I’m conceited about it. I lose
my best friends just over a little thing
like this. What can I do about this?

Claudia

Canada

Dear BB:

Try calling them names, like Marilyn,
Jayne, Diana. That should do the trick!

P.S. Look for your letters here every month.
We're sorry we can't answer them personally.

Continued on page 16

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continued from page 12

llllilllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIItllllllllMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII>i

Family Man

confidentially . . .

. . . I'm 20 years old and write lyrics and
poems to music. I’d like to write to any-
one who likes to sing or write tunes. Rock
V roll’s my favorite.

A/2C James L. Campbell
AF 16577677 Box 45
633rd AC&W Sqdron
APO 231
New York, N. Y.

. . . Change of address for Evelyn Rudie’s
fan club:

Eodie Richardson
4816 Fountain Ave.
Apt. 202

Hollywood 29, Calif.

. . . I'm 21, love the
States, show business,
Photoplay and Roo-
kie. Would someone
around my age like
to write to me on
these subjects?

Isabel Paquet
Rua Maria Angelica,
510 Jardim, Botanico
Rio de Janeiro
Brazil

. . . I’m a Finnish girl of 13. I would
love to correspond with hoys and girls all
over the world. I write in English and
German. I’m intersted in rock n’ roll and
films.

Birgitta Rusetskv
Pentbygatan 6
Karis
Finland

... I have hundreds of pics of stars
which I will gladly trade for any pics of
Gail Davis and Gene Autry.

Betty Messer
104 Montana Ave.
W. Ashville, N. C.

. . . We’ve just started a fan club for
Annette. Those kids who live east of the
Mississippi, and want to join write to:

Vic Costazo, Jr.

P.O. Box 1233
Rochester 3, N. Y.

. . . and those who live west of the
Mississippi, write to:

Royal Mackenzie, Jr.
1553 West Grand
Beloit, Wis.

... I would love
to have pen pals from
the U.S.A. as well as
anywhere in the
world. I decided to
write in as soon as I
saw my sister’s mail
box getting filled with
piles of letters. So I,
too, would like my
mail box to be filled.

I’m 13 Y2, have black hair and eyes, and
my hobbies are football, singing, Cha-Cha.
Leonard Soh
P.W.D. 24 Princes Rd.
Kuala Lumpur
Selangor, Malaya

. . . Thank you for publishing my letter
in Photoplay. I’ve received 209 letters and
I m trying very hard to reply to every one
of them. So if those who have not heard
from me yet, please be a little patient
and I promise you that you’ll hear from
me sooner or later.

Benita Soh

P.W.D. 24 Princes Rd.

Kuala Lumpur

Selangor, Malaya

. . . The new official fan club for Edward
Byrnes :

Margie Stapleton, Pres.
P.O. Box 1550
Hollywood 28, Calif.

. . . How about joining a fan club for
Frank Sinatra? Dues are only $1.25 a year
for which you receive a bulletin and map
every two months, membership card and
snapshot. Get with it kids — join a real
“gasser” of a club.

Betty Brown

5036 Haverford Ave.

Philadelphia 39, Pa.

... I am very fond
of pen pals. So much
so, that sometimes the
whole of my pocket-
money goes for it. But
I still desire to make
more friends from dif-
ferent countries.
Abdul Matin Khan
712/6 Fatima Sinnah
Colony

M. A. Sinnah Rd.
Karachi 5, Pakistan

... I would like
very much to corre-
spond with girls and
boys from all over the
world. My hobbies
are learning about
other countries, trav-
eling and films stars.
I will correspond in
English or French.
Humay Azer
Harbiye, Kayabatum
sk 21/4

Istanbul, Turkey

. . . We are twins living on a tea estate |
in India and find it very difficult to obtain I
film stars’ pictures. So if anyone is giving |
away pictures of Tony Curtis or Tony |

Perkins, we would be extremely grateful I

to receive them. |

Maureen & Terry Yearsley 1

Devikulam Estate 1

Munnar P.O., §

High Range, Kerala |

South India I

Need members for a fan club? Want a pen pal? |
Like to exchange fads? Write: Confidentially, i
Photoplay, 205 East 42nd St., NewYork 17, N.Y. |

iiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiMiiiuiiiiiiMiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimimtiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiHimiiimmmimniiiimiiimimiHHmimiiiiiHiimiiumiiiiii.

When Jerry Lewis was on location, nol
too long ago, he was staying at one of the
large hotel-motel type places in Yuma,
Arizona. Jerry’s family came with him —
his children, wife Patti and their maid. We
hotel maids would stick our heads out and
watch with curiosity as Jerry came tromp-
ing in around four o'clock every afternoon
after shooting, I guess, and he would take
the baby, pitch him up and down and sit
by the pool and hold him on his lap.

Occasionally, we would see Jerry and
Patti straighten out a fight between the
other hoys — just like any other normal,
American family.

The new baby, Anthony Joseph, born
October fifteenth, is a lucky boy. Hats
off to Jerry Lewis and his wonderful little
family.

Lucille Jacoby
Cathedral City, Calif.

Wonderful Guy

I want to tell everyone about a wonderful
guy. His name is Mark Damon and he
is the sweetest, most adorable person you
could ever want to meet. I was one of
the lucky girls who met Mark when he
was in New York a while ago. He even
gave me the label from his shirt!

Mary Carino
Greenwich, Conn.

Think Manfred looks like Elvis?

Look Alike

Manfred is a classmate of mine and I and
all my friends think that he looks somewhat
like Elvis Presley.

Heide Benstem
Germany

Parody

‘Tt Started With a Kiss,” when “Gidget”
made “Love in the Afternoon” to the "Man
Who Knew Too Much.” She looked like a
“Blue Angel” when she climbed into her
“Blue Denim” to go with her man to see
"The Big Circus.” “Marjorie Morningstar”
was there with “Yellowstone Kelly” and
"Bess,” of course, was with “Porgy.” After
lunch, “Gidget” felt a “Touch of Evil” and
agreed she had “Too Much, Too Soon.”

All in all, it was such a “Holiday for
Lovers” that they didn’t get home until
“The Middle of the Night.”

D. Davis
St. Louis, Mo.

Write to Readers Inc., Photoplay, 205 E. 42nd
St., /Yew York 17, I\. Y. We regret we cannot
answer or return unpublished letters. To start
fan clubs or write stars, contact their studios.

YOUR NEEDLEWORK

I our all day

Send thirty-five cents (in coin) for each pattern to: Photoplay Needlework, P.0.
Box 123, Old Chelsea Station, N.Y. 11, N.Y. Add 5$ for each pattern for 1st class
mailing. Send additional 25$ for Photoplay’s 1960 Needlework Catalog. For the
Spring and Summer Catalog of Printed Dress Patterns, send additional 25$.

Note that she’s married, Margaret
O’Brien’s glad she can sew. She’s
in Par’s “ Heller in Pink Tights.”

572 — For sun fun, jiffy wrap hal-
ters. Pattern pieces, transfer. Misses’
sizes small, medium, large included.

7131 — “Paint” a picture in viv-
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8 x 21", color chart, directions.

564 — Trim a sunsuit for a boy or
girl. Embroidery transfers for both,
pattern pieces for sizes 1-4 years.

577 — Lunch or buffet set. Directions
to crochet 16x24" centerpiece; 15
x 18", 5 x 9" doilies in No. 30 cotton.

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THROUGH RESEARCH

...A BETTER PRODUCT

Home From the Hill

m-c-m; cinemascope, metrocolor

Unless all the fiction writers are in
a conspiracy to fool us, it certainly
seems as if families in the South have
the strangest way of getting them-
selves all tangled up. It takes young
George Hamilton at least half the
picture to figure out dad Robert
Mitchum’s complicated affairs (left,
at bottom). His discovery comes as a
shock, and the situation it sets up is
unusual and loaded with emotion.
Mitchum’s character is an odd one:
a feudal type stranded in the present
day; a huntin’, shootin’ gentleman
who owns most of the town and sur-
rounding territory — and thinks he
owns the women, too, at least tem-
porarily. That attitude hasn’t en-
deared him to George’s possessive
mother (Eleanor Parker). This
Hamilton boy, intense and darkly
handsome, is a fascinating newcomer.
But the real hit of the picture is
scored by another George. You’ll like
blond, husky George Peppard as the
young mystery man, a sort of grown-
up Hack Finn, who’s been on his own
since he was a little boy nobody
wanted. Luana Patten’s a young girl
who’s involved with both Georges in
a very strange and pathetic triangle.

ADULT

The Lust Voyage m-c-m; metrocolor

“Show them no mercy” is the
watchword of this seagoing thriller —
“them” being us, the audience. The
husband-and-wife movie-making team
of Andrew and Virginia Stone, old
hands at suspense, draw the tension
so taut that you’re sure neither it
nor your nerves can last for another
inch. Then the Stones think up an-
other gimmick to pull it still tighter.
We’re put through the last hours of
an old luxury liner on a Pacific
crossing. Passenger Bob Stack is
trying to free his wife, Dorothy
Malone, who is trapped in the wreck-
age of their stateroom (left, at top).
Captain George Sanders, the model
of a dashing skipper in the dining
salon, is turning out to be a complete
flop up on the bridge. Down in an
engine room that’s rapidly being
flooded, Edmond O’Brien is raging
over his chief’s indecision. All very

nervous! — and it keeps getting ner-
vouser. The studio isn’t supposed to
admit it, but it’s generally known that
the movie’s doomed ship is a genuine
great lady of the sea, the He de
France, scrapped after the film’s end.

FAMILY

Guns of the Timberland

WARNERS, TECHNICOLOR

Guess you’d call this a western;
except the good guys and the bad
guys are fighting over trees rather
than cows. Rancher Jeanne Crain
says, “Spare those trees!” But Alan
Ladd and Gilbert Roland never heard
of conservation ; they have a permit
to cut timber, and they’re a-gonna
cut it. So tempers explode, and the
gunfire and dynamite blasts start,
too. It's a lively enough action yarn,
but younger moviegoers will be in-
terested in it mostly as the movie
debut picture for Frankie Avalon
and Alana Ladd. In spite of her
Hollywood upbringing, Alan’s pretty
daughter isn’t as much at ease as
Frankie, who cuts quite a pleasing
figure up there on the big. colorful
screen, acting away and singing two

SOngS. FAMILY

The World of Apu

HARRISON; DIALOGUE IN BENGALI,
TITLES IN ENGLISH

Nobody who merely visited India
(no matter for how long) could see
it as clearly as Satyajit Ray does,
with his loving yet honest eyes. This
is the director’s third chapter in his
story of Apu, who was a small
country boy in “Pather Panehali”
and a big-city youth in “Aparajito.”
Now the young man. whose home ties
and family ties are broken, tries to
build a family of his own — and be-
comes a wanderer, looking desper-
ately for his place in the world. The
sensitive writer (that’s the grown-
up Apu'' s calling) is pretty familiar
in fiction everywhere, so this picture
hasn’t quite the freshness of the first
two. But director Ray still gives us
the most careful and searching view
of modern life on any screen. adult

A Dog of Flanders 20th; cinema-
scope. DE LUXE COLOR

Well, it seems David Ladd was no
flash in the pan. If you thought Alan
( Continued )

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Ladd’s, boy was appealing in “The
Proud Rebel,” you’ll like him even
better in his very own movie. David’s
a fine juvenile hero, sturdy and nat-
ural. If the film’s title rings a bell,
that’s because Ouida’s book has been
a fixture on the children’s shelf for a
few generations back. And nobody’s
tried to jazz it up. It still has the fla-
vor of more than half-a-century ago,
when it seems the world was full of
poor orphan boys bravely making
their own way* (usually in the snow).
When grandpa Donald Crisp is gone,
David’s only friends are his big, loyal
cart dog and an outspoken, slightly
Bohemian painter. As the artist,
Theodore Bikel adds a welcome dash
of salt to the sugar, and Monique
Ahrens is mighty pretty as his model.
Seeing the wide sweep of the Low-
lands and the quaint Dutch houses,
you'll agree the location trip was
worthwhile. family

Toby Tyler BlJENA V,STA’

J - TECHNICOLOR

For a wonder, here’s a second
good whole-family picture in one
month! David Ladd has a rival in
chunky Kevin Corcoran (you remem-
ber him as the kid brother of “The
Shaggy Dog”). Kevin’s a 19th Cen-
tury orphan, too — an American farm
boy who slips off to work for a circus,
which is probably one of the smallest
shows on earth. Like its young star,
the movie has a delightfully matter-
of-fact manner; Kevin finds this
circus is no dream-come-true, hut a
hard-working outfit where nearly
everybody talks tough. ( Only one guy
acts that way, though.) This is nearly
unique among Disney pictures — no
scary stuff! The small fry won’t have
nightmares, though they may wail
over the danger to Mr. Stubbs (he’s
Kevin’s pal. a mischievous chimp).

Chance Meeting paramount

Here’s a slick, smart guessing game
in the neatest British tradition. Even
though detective Stanley Baker has a
miserable, unglamorous cold in the
head, the case he’s on is a stylish one.
Germany’s good-looking Hardy Kru-
ger, as a poor young Dutch painter,
is accused of murdering Micheline
Presie, his sophisticated mistress.

Flashbacks show the lady was a cool
customer, anxious to preserve her
comfortable marriage to a very im-
portant Englishman. But there’s a
surprise on the way! For a fillip of
realism, a class-prejudice angle is
tossed in. Seems the detective is per-
sonally sensitive on that subject.

ADULT

Seven Thieves 20th, cinemascope

“The perfect crime” is with us
again, a fascinating idea to most
meek, usually law-abiding characters.
This time it’s Edward G. Robinson,
as a mild old ex-professor, who
dreams it up, and it’s a beaut. He
wants to clean out the vault at the
Monte Carlo Casino, and he’s lined
up a shady crew to pull the job, with
Rod Steiger in command. Most deco-
rative of the thieves is Joan Collins,
who shows off a considerable amount
of a shape that’s just about perfect.
The crime isn’t, but it’s generally
entertaining, if not very credible
( luckily for that nice ruling family of
Monaco). adult

Once More, With Feeling

COLUMBIA, TECHNICOLOR

Each time this nutty comedy starts
sagging into too much talk, two
dazzling personalities come to the
rescue and put the bounce back into
it. The first is Yul Brynner as a long-
hair conductor — now there’s a piece
of casting! But Yul sticks to his usual
hairdo (except for one scene) and
throws the most awe-inspiring fits of
temperament you ever saw. Mostly
you’ll want to see the picture because
it’s the last made by the late Kay
Kendall, who plays Yul’s wife. Her
rare gift for clowning seems extra-
precious now. And her beauty is
more remarkable because she appears
to be so unconscious of it (even in a
series of very striking outfits by Gi-
venchy). ADULT

20t h

Sink the Bismarck! cinemascope

Just to give us the feeling that
we’re watching an actual news event,
Edward R. Murrow comes on, play-
ing his younger self, and introduces
this sea epic of World War II. It’s all
about the desperate British effort to
find and destroy Nazi Germany’s

newest and mightiest ship, before she
can sneak out and attack convoys. A
few fictitious characters have been
slipped in, like Kenneth More as the
Royal Navy officer who plans the
operation and Dana Wynter as the
pretty Wren who assists him. Other-
wise, it’s all true — and so suspenseful
you almost forget, while you’re
watching it, who won that war. Funny
thing, though — it’s sort of nostalgic,
too. With all the super-weapons
poised over our heads nowadays,
these fighting ships might as well be
picturesque square-riggers. family

c f - COLUMBIA;

Swan Lake eastman color

Thanks to the U.S. cultural-ex-
change agreement with the U.S.S.R.,
we’re invited to a performance of
Tchaikowsky’s fairytale suite at the
Bolshoi Theater in Moscow. It’s a
delight as long as we can concentrate
on ballerina Maya Plisetskaya; every
miraculously controlled motion of her
whole body is pure poetry. But her
work is chopped up by clumsy close-
ups; the sound track is a far cry from
hi-fi; and there are too many shots
of the theater and especially the audi-
ence. You feel like hollering at those
faraway fans, “Down in front!”

FAMILY

Hell Bent for Leather u-i;

CINEMASCOPE, EASTMAN COLOR

If you’re mad for westerns, you’ll
be satisfied with this modest Audie
Murphy item. It puts Audie in the
familiar fix of the innocent traveler
who’s mistaken for a desperado.
Felicia Farr is the usual expert char-
acter-reader, smarter than the would-
be lynch mob. In the past, you could
rely on most of Audie’s horse operas
for a nice humorous slant. All you
get this time is one grimly amusing
scene with good actor Robert Middle-

ton- FAMILY

The Rise and Fall of

Legs Diamond WARNERS

There’s some grim humor at the
beginning of this old-time-gangster
saga, too. Ray Danton’s behavior in
the title role is so outrageous, it’s
funny. But then the picture settles
down to standard shoot-’em-up stuff;
the mere fact that a lot of real names

are thrown around doesn’t make it
much more interesting. The heroine
of this one (Karen Steele) isn’t such
an expert character-reader; it takes
her most of the movie to recognize
the true nature of the monster she

loVeS. ADULT

Babette Goes to War COLUMBIA;

CINEMASCOPE, EASTMAN COLOR;

DIALOGUE IN FRENCH, TITLES IN ENGLISH

It’s hard to make a funny picture on
a serious subject, but Bardot & Co.
have happily managed to do just that.
Brigitte is not only fully dressed at all
times, but she plays a nice girl, a
lovable little character who blunders
into the French underground, while
the Nazis think she’s working for them.
Jacques Charrier (who’s her off-
screen husband) is a handsome Free
French officer, and Ronald Howard’s
the eccentric Englishman who master-
minds Brigitte’s adventure into Oc-
cupied France, where Francis Blanche
actually gets a lot of laughs as a Ges-
tapo chief. In fact, the picture’s a neat
job all around, a smart suspense com-
edy. Brigitte herself doesn’t do any-
thing shocking, but there are a few
spicy situations. They’re handled very
discreetly, but we’d still better call

this . . . ADULT

The 3rd Voice cinemascope

Right at the beginning of this pic-
ture, Laraine Day shoots her faithless
lover dead, and then she leaves his
body on the living-room floor and goes
calmly into the bedroom to put some
polish on her nails — with a steady
hand, too. That’ll give you a good idea
of what a cool customer she is, and
what an ironically tough movie this
is. As her partner in the plot, Edmond
O’Brien is a match for her. She has
carefully trained him for the risky
job of impersonating the murdered
man, who was a financial big shot,
and . . . Well, it all gets wildly com-
plicated, but it isn’t hard to follow,
because the story is told so smoothly.
About the only sympathetic character
in sight is Julie London, a girl O’Brien
very easily picks up in a hotel bar. If
you’re on your toes, you may spot
some giveaway clues, but the finish is
more likely to be a real surprise.

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ADULT

John Saxon tells me the real truth about rumors on him and Vicki Thai.

Bits and Pieces: A long and amusing let-
ter accompanied Tony Randall’s gift to
me of his new platter, “Bits and Pieces.” I
wonder if Tony didn’t snitch that title from
me, after all. I’ve been using that heading
for a long, long time. . . . Charlton Heston
feels people who live in glass houses should
never move to New York. Charlton had no
sooner taken possession of his glass house,
atop a California mountain, than he took
off for Broadway and the play “The Tum-
bler.” And there stands that beautiful Cali-
fornia vista with no one to view it. . . . The
feeling is that Anna Kashfi Brando was
badly advised by well-meaning friends in
her arguments with Marlon over visitation
rights to their son Chris. But Superior Court Judge Allen T.
Lynch finally took care of that ugly mess and now Marlon is
permitted to have the boy he adores for short periods twice a
week. . . . Liz Taylor, in establishing a trust fund for her
three children — “those grave, those quiet, those questioning
children” as someone termed them — made a wise move. These

serious little ones seem
to need all sorts of se-
curity— financial and
emotional. Understand
Liz’s son Chris imitates
Eddie Fisher’s sing-
ing, gestures and all.

The Charlton Hestons are sorry.

Close-ups: John Saxon is quietly dating other girls. “Vicki
and 1 were never married,” he now confesses, “and she’s free
to date, too.” . . . Jack Lemmon would have had a stroke
had he known how frantically Glenn Ford tried to date his
best girl, Felicia Farr, before he left for England. On the
other hand, it may have jolted Jack into realizing what a
prize he has in Felicia. . . . Millie Perkins took off for Lon-
don to visit her best beau. Dean Stoekwell, without a word
to anyone. Dean is making a movie in England and Millie
couldn’t bear the separation. . . . Doris Day is all ablaze
since Rex Harrison agreed to co-star in her “Matilda
Shouted Fire. ” Rex is one of the best in the acting business
and Doris is thrilled to the absolute bursting point. . . .

Peter Lawford hustled over to
furrier, Abe Lipsey, and or-
dered a full length, broadtail
coat as a gift to his wife the
day her brother, Senator John
Kennedy, became a president-
ial nominee. And should Sena-
tor Kennedy win the presidency,
won’t it seem strange to have
Peter and his pals, Frank
Sinatra and Sammy Davis
Jr., roaming around the White I
House? . . . Judi Meredith’s
romance with Barry Coe may
have ended in disappointment
but you couldn’t tell it from Judi
these days. The town’s bachelors
are really giving Miss Meredith

Judi’s happier. Anything to do with Jim Mitchum? a whirl.

The man in Dot's life is not her Derby escort, Roger.

Fads and Foibles: It’s chic to wear red satin slippers with
pink evening dresses. At Johnny Mathis’ opening at the
Cocoanut Grove, Zsa Zsa Gabor trotted from table to table
to show off her red slippers. “It’s Dior’s idea, dollink,” she
enthused. A few evenings previous, Zsa Zsa showed up at an
elegant party all done up in white chiffon edged with ostrich
feathers. After she leaned over to kiss me, I combed ostrich
fuzz out of my hair for a week. A beautiful and amusing
woman this Zsa Zsa. . . .

Babies, Babies Every-
where:— “I want a child of
my own,” confided Ava
Gardner some time ago. “I
will never be lonely again if
only I can have a child.”

Ava’s dream is now about to
come true and adoption pa-
pers may be taken out any
day now. . . . Steve Law-
rence tore up from his Army
post at Fort Monmouth, New
Jersey, to be with his wife,
singer Eydie Gorme, when
their son was born at Doc-
tor’s Hospital in New York.

. . . Papa Jacques Char-
rier greeted the crowds out-
side his Paris apartment with
a big happy grin. “It’s a
boy,” he called. “We call him
Nicolas Jacques.” And so
Brigitte Bardot Charrier
had her first child, while in
a cafe nearby Jacques or-
dered champagne for all.

. . . And if Loretta Young
isn’t just about the youngest
and happiest grandmother
that ever so gracefully swung
through an open TV door,
then I give up. Loretta’s
daughter’s baby girl is, of
course, its grandmother’s
pride and joy.

Mail Box Corner: Letters and greetings poured in this
month. Among them, one from my friend Van Johnson,
now living in Switzerland. I remember so well when Van’s
popularity among fans equaled that of Elvis today. Unfor-
tunately, his marriage to Evy Wynn, divorced wife of his
best friend Keenan Wynn, spelled doom to the big freckled-
faced redhead and today his few movies are usually made in
Europe. ... Will Marilyn Gavran please send me her ad-
dress once again. I seem to have mislaid it and so many
readers want to join the Nelson Eddy fan club. . . . Marlene
Schultz of Mayville, Wisconsin, is a real Earl Holliman
fan and would love an autographed picture of her idol. Earl
— please oblige. . . . Vivian Nelson of Helena, Montana, is
so grateful for the mention of those former screen idols and
hopes we keep stressing “those stars of yesterday.” . . . Anna
Van Hausen of Paterson, New Jersey, writes that hers is
the only National Fan Club for Robert Fuller of the “Lara-
mie” TV series and tells how devoted Robert is to the club.
. . . M. A. Pearce writes to ask “Who is Ralph Meeker?”
Let’s say he’s that handsome and virile actor of stage and
screen who has been woefully neglected by Hollywood, but
may soon appear in a TV series. . . . And to Bobby Jean of
Mississippi, start right where you are to act in school plays
and little theaters and one day, my dear, you may be dis-
covered. I do hope so.

Believe it or not, there's another Gabor! She's Zsa Zsa’s young daughter Francesca.

Wonder if baby Nicolas will change Brigitte?

A Line or Two: Ask those seasoned men who
drive stars around studio lots who their fav-
orite is, and they come up with one answer—
Barbara Stanwyck. “She’s the greatest, the
most thoughtful, the most human,” they claim.
I decided she was also the handsomest woman
in town, with her natural grey hair and trim
figure. . . . Steve Boyd, the Messala of “Ben-
Hur,” seems to me one of the loneliest souls
in town. “I’m alone, but not lonely,” he con-
fided. I can tell him if Connie Francis had
her way, Steve’s life would be a happy one.
... If “The Alaskans” TV series folds, as ru-
mored, maybe Dorothy Provine will respond
to Buddy Bregman’s wooing, and Roger
Moore will play the lead in Errol Flynn’s
story, “My Wicked Wicked Ways.” ( Continued )

A Day at the Studio: Boh Horton sat at the

table behind me and Ward Bond two tables

away, at lunch in the dining room of Universal
studios. Even with his arch enemy. Ward Bond,
nearby, Bob seemed more relaxed than usual, it seemed to
me. I wonder why? . . . John Ireland, David Wayne,
Venetia Stevenson, cowboys, Indians, agents and writers,
were all milling about discussing their favorite subject —
television. But over on Stage 26, Kirk Douglas was still
making love to Jean Simmons, for that ever lovin’, ever
livin’ movie “Spartacus” that goes on and on and on. And
on Stage lo, producer Ross Hunter’s “Portrait in Black’’
was in full bloom with Lana Turner and Sandra Dee in
the midst of a heavy, dramatic scene. And what two beauties
they are, again playing mother and daughter as in “Imitation
of Life.” As I watched Lana through the scene, I suddenly
recalled a prediction she’d mentioned to me all of ten years
ago. It seems an astrologer had told her that no matter
how glaring the headlines, the scandals, the tragedies

that lay ahead, her

George isn't saying much yet, but it looks to me as if he's “taken.

career wo

uld

right

on zooming

upward. And how
right he proved to
be. . . . Later, in her
dressing room, San-
dra Dee had me
drooling over the
Jean Louis ward-
robe she wears in
the movie and which
the studio gave her
outright as a gift.
And what a figure
for those dreamy,
dreamy clothes!
It’s a fact her waist
measures 19"! But
oh those clothes!
Grey tweed suit and
coat, green chiffon
with ermine-
trimmed green vel-
vet coat, a brown tweed with beaver trim and a beaver hat.
Sandra’s mother was all excited about an original painting
Ross Hunter had given her and Sandra for their new house.
Sandra has another “Gidget” movie after “Portrait” and then
she flies to Europe for “Romanoff and Juliet.” . . . On a Mon-
p day, I stood chatting away with Jeanne Crain on Rodeo
Drive, and the following day, Jeanne and Paul Brinkman
became the parents of little Mary Jo, their sixth child.

For Jeanne and Paul, six is lucky.

Sandra calls it the sideswipe.

Young Set: George
Hamilton and Susan
Kohner played brother
and sister in “All the Line
Young Cannibals,” but
off-screen, they date like
crazy. George, in his Ivy
League tux, and Susan, in
her Sophia original, step
high, wide and handsome.

After the release of “Home
Lrom the Hill,” M-G-M expects young Hamilton to emerge
“your favorite.” . . . It’s The Thing to get away from curls
and swirls and wear one’s hair in a smooth sweep. Sandra
Dee calls hers the “Dee Sideswipe” and naturally on her it’s
divine. . . . It’s smart these days out here to wear three shades
of eye shadow, one above the other — black next to the lashes,
with a line of green above and finally topped by a thin line
of blue. So mysterious. . . . It’s elegant, too, to wear jeweled
chokers but it’s more fun to wear fake ones, gobs and gobs of
them. . . . And if Gloria Swanson is a living example (and
she is) of health food diets — organic vegetables and estrogen
free meats — then it’s sensible to get on the wheat germ band-
wagon. What a beauty this Swanson! And at her age, yet.

( Continued )

^vvvvvvvvvvvvwvvwwvwww

ij , ^ | I Look Back: I saw her first in the

1 J year 1926 and decided, then, that de-

| JgSp. ^Lji spite the plump figure and foreign

I gJM clothes, this unknown woman was the

I «■ most beautiful 1 had ever seen. When

jpfl later I saw her on the screen in “The
\ ' /mm Torrent," I realized, along with M-G-M,

this Greta Garbo was also a great
artist. The studio hadn’t really wanted
her and accepted her only as part of
their contract bargain with Swedish director Maurice Stiller.
But Stiller, who proved a failure, returned to Sweden to die of
a broken heart and Garbo, slim and chic in her Adrian clothes,
went on to make history in those passionate silent films with the
current rage, John Gilbert. When talkies arrived, Gilbert failed
to make the grade, despite Garbo’s kindness and help. And the
former idol, who loved Garbo so desperately, finally succumbed
to the pain of bitter disappointment. The death of these two
men who loved her, drove Garbo to a deeper inner seclusion and
her “I vant to be alone” became a byword. With the laughter
of her “Ninotchka” and the tragedy of her beautiful “Camille,”
Garbo became a legend in her own life, an actress conceded to
be the greatest, yet one who was never given an Oscar. Now re-
tired, Garbo roams the world still alone and never yet equaled
in the greatness of her talent.

/VVWWWVWWWVWVWVWVWVVWVWWVWVW»»W»VWW\

INSIDE

STUFF

continued

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Around Town: Debbie Reynolds arrived home from the
day’s shooting on “Pleasure of His Company” with a story
for little Carrie. “Today I wore a beautiful dress that one
day will be yours,” she told Carrie. “It’s a bride’s dress
made of wonderful old lace and I’m putting it away for the
time when you grow up, fall in love and become a bride.”
“Will it be tomorrow?” Carrie asked. “No. not tomorrow,”
Debbie assured her, “but someday.” After Debbie’s name
appeared on the worst-dressed poll. Paramount gave Debbie
the Edith Head wardrobe she wears in this particular
movie — the wedding dress among them. . . . When Kay
Gable’s children “Bunker” and Joanie had their tonsils

removed, the kids insisted Clark
and Kay stay overnight in the
hospital. “For a minute there I
was afraid I’d have to promise to
have my tonsils out, too,” Clark
grinned. He’s so crazy about those
two children it really wouldn’t
have surprised me at all if he did
have them removed. The Gables
had just moved bag and baggage
into their new Palm Springs
house only a few weeks before,
and had to return to town be-
cause of this tonsil business.

Jill and Lance are keeping their promise. They look surprised, but I'm not.

Orange Blossoms: The bride wore a plain silk dress
and a temperature of 103 when Julie London mar-
ried her long-time suitor. Bobby Troup, in her home —
just before a group of guests were due to arrive. “I have the
flu and I’m married,” Julie greeted her friends who weren’t
sure whether to shower the bride with rice or aspirin. . . .
“The courtship is now over.” Darryl Hickman assured
Pamela Lincoln after fifteen months of wooing. “Now we
get married,” Darryl said. “Yes dear.” sighed Pamela as
Darryl led his lady love to the marriage license bureau. . . .
“It’s almost spring and now Lance and I will be married as
we told you.” Jill St. John said. Which is wonderful with
me, as I’m fond of both Jill and the handsome Lance
Reventlow. “And I worked out the problem of Lance’s
sport car racing,” Jill added. “I won’t go to see him race and
then I won’t get so nervous about it.” And Lance’s mother,
the fabulous Barbara Hutton, has given her approval of
the bride, I’m told. . . . Fess Parker took his secretary
Marcy Rinehart as his ever-loving bride in the town of
Santa Barbara where the couple will make their home. Fess
will commute to Hollywood in his own helicopter, if you
please, and Mrs. Parker will continue as her husband’s
business partner in his record company and various other
enterprises. Which makes it cozy. . . . Hollywood, it seems,
has its eye on a young beauty called Juliet Prowse. But
so has Frank Sinatra. Juliet and Frank made “Can Can”
together and now they are both constantly in each other’s
company. Wonder if anything will come from this.

Unbelievable:

Marilyn Mon-
roe’s invite, to
meet her co-star
Yves Montand,
was handwritten
and. surprisingly,

Marilyn was on
time for the party
and couldn’t have
been more gracious
or more lovely in
her pale chiffon. A
few evenings be-
fore, Marilyn was
scarcely recogniza-
ble in Chasen’s res-
taurant, with over-
done eye makeup,
the lowest possible
cut top with odd Clark and Kay had a narrow escape.

slacks and her hair
piled on top of her

head, on which rested a pair of dark glasses. She sat as close
as possible to husband Arthur Miller, whom she fed huge
forkfuls of marinated herring. The contrast between this
Marilyn, so unbecomingly dowdy, and the gracious hostess
at the Montand cocktail party, was almost unbelievable.

Van and Vicki fooled their friends.

Cal York’s Jottings:

The whole town mourned along with
Joe Cotten, whose wife died quite
suddenly in Rome. The Cottens had
been one of Hollywood’s happiest and
most constant couples. . . . Dick
Powell and June Allyson sold their
Mandeville Canyon home for a half-
million dollars in favor of a smaller
house in town and perhaps an extra
one in that flourishing suburb of New-
port, near Balboa. . . . David Ladd,
who has been offered the “Tom
Sawyer ’ TV series, may find it too
strenuous, along with his school work.
David, by the way, is a sensation in “A
Dog of Flanders.” And the movie’s
young producer, Robert Radnitz,
thinks beauteous Margo Moore, the
only girl in the world. . . . That Mt.
Kenya Safari Club in East Africa is the
talk of the town, with owners Bill
Holden and Ray Ryan rather snooty
over its memberships. Bill Holden, by
the way, is building a house on a Hong
Kong hilltop, so dear knows when we’ll
ever see him again. . . . Good luck Van
Williams and Vicki Taylor, who
surprised most of their friends when
they were married on December 31,
1959, at 9:15 a.m. in the Wayfarers’
Chapel in Palos Verdes, California. The
couple originally had planned to wed
next February in San Francisco, but a
short break in the production schedule
of Warner Bros.’ “Bourbon Street
Beat,” in which Van co-stars, enabled
the couple to move up the date. It was
a lovely wedding.

BEFORE TRUSHAY —

Photograph, skin
unretouched,

October 26, 1959

hard-

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hands

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AFTER TRUSHAY —

Same hands,
skin unretouched,
October 30, 1959

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“Look, it's Kookie!” Debbie cried.
“Gee, we didn't wear shoes."

“A gas leak,” Edd decided.

“Hold onto my shoulders, Deb,”

Edd said. “ Susie's tall.

So she gets the rumble seat.”

The day was sunny and
warm, a perfect Saturday,
but Bonnie Marshall, Debra
Olson and Susie Grinel hard-
ly noticed as they walked
along the road, kicking peb-
bles with their bare feet. “Just
because we’re only ten,” Bon-
nie complained to Debra as
she rolled the sleeves of her
shirt higher, “they don’t have
to treat us like children.” Her
friend, Susie, who was thir-
teen, nodded. None of the
older girls had to walk home
from the beach, she thought.
They always got rides. Sud-
denly, a motorscooter sput-
tered up the road behind them
and came to a stop. Deb
was the first to turn. “It’s
Kookie,” she gasped, “where’s
he going?” and grabbed Bon-
nie’s arm. They stood and
watched as he pushed his
scooter to the side of the road
and ( Continued on page 87)

“Here we go,” Edd said , starting the
motor. “Next stop, Bowmont
D rive. ” “Wait ’ til they see us with Kookie , ’ ’
Bonnie (front) said. When they
arrived home, Edd said, “It was fun.”
Nobody wanted to say goodbye.

SANDRA DEE

She sits hugging her knees, for a minute, and then
she changes, digs her feet deeper into the sand and
laughs. Her poodle looks up, startled. She seems
younger than she is. She looks thirteen. It’s because she
doesn’t usually wear makeup when she’s loafing, but
she always wears nail polish — “Pink’s my favorite.”

Her face looks sad one moment, and the next, she’s
running around the beach after her dog. Suddenly she
stops and says, “Do people really believe all those
things that are written about ( Continued on page 74)

by NANCY ANDERSON

■

| « ■ n|

S&> V f

KlI

«? •;

LIZ TAYLOR

The question was asked
in a whisper,

yet the words seemed
to grow louder and louder

and more insistent

The first year of marriage can he the wackiest . . .

One night, just a few months after their wed-
ding, Nick came home, only to find Carol in tears.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he asked. “What-
ever’s the matter? Did something happen to you?”

“Nothing . . . nothing’s wrong,” she replied,
whimpering, and she disappeared into the kitch-
en to prepare dinner, leaving Nick standing there.

“But honey,” he said, following her. “I know

something’s wrong. Please tell me, what is it?”

“Oh, now, you know very well what’s wrong.”

“Well . . . gee, no ... I sure don’t think I do.”

“Discount clothes for our little baby, indeed!”

“Oh,” he said, finally understanding it all.

Just that morning he’d mentioned to her over
the telephone that, on his way to the studio, he’d
passed a discount house which was selling cute
baby things. He’d sug- ( Continued on page 76)

the children
everybody stares at

Ingrid tries to protect them

Newsmen never leave them . . . little Robertino, nine, and his
twin sisters, Isobella and Isotta, six. Not since Mama and Papa
quarreled and got a divorce two years ago. Then, even more
than before, people stared at them wherever they went. When
these pictures were taken, they were arriving in Paris with
Mama, from Italy where they’d been staying with Papa. But
it’s been the same everywhere . . . rushing away from cameras.
Sometimes they’d ask, Why do people stare ? Mama ( Continued )

“I wish I’d paid for it alone, but

my children are paying for it too.”

«*«** --m

would look troubled, but promise she’d pro-
tect them. Recently she said, “Now I’m happy,
but I wish I’d paid for it alone. My children
are paying, too.” For three little ones, it’s be-
come a frightening world. The price is paid. It’s
time Ingrid and her children were left alone.

but first, please
read my story.
I want you to
understand

WHY I’VE

CHANGED

grown man
could cry ”

■fflltllt

I didn’t

know a

I remember, as a small boy I often went
hungry. I remember standing outside
our two-room shack in the little cotton
factory town of Tupelo, looking up to-
ward the huge, red Mississippi sun, and
shouting, “Oh, God. Please ... I don’t
want to stay here forever like this.”

I remember my father, who is a man
above all else, sobbing because he couldn’t
pay all our bills. I remember my mother
— who died nearly two years ago — sacrific-
ing her health by ( Continued on page 82)

SPECIAL: written by Elvis Presley

m ,?%y

mfTWa!

mmM.

#2 IN A SERIES

Annette and Paul

put your best foot forward. . .put your best foot

Glove leather 6lip-in
by Trio,

Mesh and patent leather
by Velvet Step, $10.00.

THE BASIC BOX STEP

Start Here
Feet Together

The most graceful and romantic of
all the dances is the waltz. Yet it’s
easy to learn, too. just follow these
step patterns. (Your left foot’s white,
right foot black — to tell them apart.)

1. Step back on right foot

2. Step to the side on left foot

3. Step together on right foot

4. Step forward on left foot

5. Step to the side on right foot

6. Step together on left foot

The girl begins the Box Step back-
wards on her right foot (step #1)
and the man begins the Box Step for-
ward on his left foot (step $:4).

Both partners should turn gradually
to the left while doing the Box Step.

BALANCE STEPS
FORWARD AND BACKWARD

To do this easy break in the waltz:

1. Step back on right foot

2. Step together on ball of left foot

3. Hold (no movement) balance

4. Step forward on left foot

5. Step together on ball of right foot

6. Hold (no movement) balance

The girl begins the Balance Step
backward on her right foot (step
i£l) and the man begins forward on
his left foot (step #4).

Step patterns by

Fred Astaire Dance Studios

forward. ♦. put your best foot f orward . . . put your

FOR MORE INFORMATION, TURN TO PAGE 77

his tenement stoop in the Bronx,

Bobby Cassatto stared at the

knife that clattered on the steps
by his feet. His black eyes
seemed to grow as big and round
as eight-balls. There was blood

to have anything to do with it

nor with the hoodlum who com

manded (Continued on page 90)

ooo

Dianne

she

that

isn’t

even

Lennon says it

always easy to tell,

though she confesses

proposed to Dick Gass the second time

she ever met him. But she admits now

she didn t actually fall in love with him
until years later.

Confusing?

Continued on page 71)

CARY GRANT-Confidential File

FROM: Sara Hamilton — Hollywood

TO: New York office

SUBJECT; Cary Grant

I didn't g^Vthe story yod wa
ed on Cary Grant • In fact , I didn ' t
get any story at all. You see,
what happened so threw me off base
and into some sort of funny break-
ing-out spells, I never got around
to it. But I thought I'd better
send these notes on to you, since
I hear Cary may be^leaving Holly-^
wood for good.

Anyway, it all began when I
telephoned Cary's own Granart
Production Company, expecting,
as one always does, to go through
various channels, stone-deaf
secretaries, vice presidents in
charge of utter frustration, and
what-not. And
a friend and
else in the whole

(More to come, see page 85)

. ” , : “ . £f& v : 't v. .

Debbie

said:

COME

ON IN,
THE

PARTY’S

FOR

YOU

by SUSAN STORIES
Debbie’s Fan Club President
(I’m the one in the middy blouse)

I sat right next to Debbie when she served us punch in her very best silver cups. Then she played records for us .

Hi,” Debbie greeted as she opened the door for me. “Come
on in.” I was so nervous I could hardly say hello. You
see, my name is Susan Sturies and I was Debbie’s first official
fan-club president. I’ve been president for ten years. And this
year, when I wrote and said I was coming out to Hollywood ( I
live in Spirit Lake, Iowa), Debbie wrote back: “Let me give you
a party!” She had a chocolate cake for me, with icing that read:
“Welcome Susan from the L.A. Debbie Reynolds Fan Club.”
Debbie looked great. When I told her so, she laughed. “It’s my
favorite dress,” she said, “even though my mother made it over
four years ago.” We all listened to some of her new records. I like
“Summer Romance” the best, though “Tammy’s” still my favorite
picture. Someone called and asked her to do a TV show. Debbie
polled us on who we’d like to appear with her. Elvis won, of
course, with Fabian next. Then we ate. The food was so great,
I asked Debbie for her menu. (See right.)

SANDWICHETTES
(cream cheese with chives)

CRACKER DIP

(onion soup mix and sour cream)

EGGS CHARTREUSE
(stuffed with mashed yolks and avocado)

BEVERAGE

(ginger-ale with cherry and mint leaf)

Afterward, we went outside to have our picture taken, but l was still so excited I didn’t get everyone's name.

DINAH SHORE

I hope my

daughter

“Can you ever get over
a broken heart?” asked Dinah
Shore, speaking slowly
and looking thoughtfully over toward
her husband, George Montgomery,
as they sat relaxing in the garden of their
home. “Missy will be

asking me soon and makes the

Missy

I’ll need an answer
for her. Haven’t you noticed how much she’s
grown lately? She’ll be having boyfriends
before very long and then . . .

One day her heart will be
broken. It must hap-
pen. It happens to every
girl. And when the hurt is over, she’ll be

glad she had the (Continued on page 93)

same

mistake

I did

* * yebrows

were raised when
Joan Collins
announced
plans to marry
Warren Beatty
...but Joan says:

matters when
you're in love

A new white convertible stopped
in front of the entrance to an
elegant apartment building on
Shoreham Drive in Hollywood. It
was after midnight, and the street
lamp shone softly on the brown-
haired girl behind the wheel. She
parked the car, stepped out, locked
it and walked into the building
alone. She hunted for her key and,
finding it, unlocked the door and
turned on the lights in the apart-
ment. Everything was so still.

In the quiet of her bedroom,
Joan Collins looked at herself in
the mirror above her dresser.
“You even look unhappy,” she
finally said out loud. And she
wished, more than anything, that
she could cry. She wished she
could fling herself across the bed
and sob. But she couldn’t. Some-
thing held her back. Instead, she
loosened the clasp to her pearls
and started to remove them slow-
ly— very slowly.

She’d just returned from an-
other evening of watching tele-
vision with friends. “You’re . . .
you’re unhappy,” something in-
side of her seemed to insist, “be-
cause you’ve made a mess of your
personal life. You made a mess of
one marriage, and you’ve been
trying to make up for it ever
since. . . . And all you’ve managed
to prove ( Continued on page 79)

by GEORGE CHRISTY

DIANE BAKER SHOWS:

THE HOLLYWOOD WAY TO IMPROVE YOUR FIGURE

from the

FIGURE TYPE: Small Bosom,
Large Hips — “The first day I went to
the costume department at Twentieth,”
says Diane Baker, “I learned that
clothes are more than clothes — they
can camouflage, too.” For large hips,
Hollywood experts suggest bouffant
skirts, like Diane’s dress by Junior
Theme, and vertical stripes which will
slim you, too. Jewelry — like the new
big pins — and interesting blouse de-
tail can draw attention away from the
hips. But watch out for too much
fullness above the waist. It can make
you look heavy all over. In separates,
choose a skirt that’s darker than the
blouse. Wear dark hose and shoes.

UNDERGARMENTS

• If your bosom's too small, it will
look larger because of the uplift it can
get from a bra like this one that uses
nylon-satin on the under-bust part of
the cup for support. Jantzen. $3.95.

• A long-leg pantie girdle will re-
shape and slenderize hips that are too
prominent. This one has a split-hip
design and side panels of dull-elastic
that give you moderate control and
insure good comfort. Jantzen. $10.95.

• For the bouffant look that’s so
flattering to your type figure, wear
this red, corded petticoat of nylon
tricot that’s specially treated to make
it sparkle. Kayser Lingerie. $8.95.

bottom up

FIGURE TYPE: Large Bosom,
Small Hips — The trick is to play up
the good features, play down the bad.
Low-cut bouffant formals, with skirts
to balance a large bosom, are good. So
are the over-blouse, loosely-fitted suit
or jacket-dress. Padded shoulders are
not for you, but V necks, open-shirt
collars and narrow square necklines
are. Keep away from glitter jewelry or
buttons — they accent the bust. When
you’re mixing separates, wear a blouse
darker than the skirt. Here, Diane
wears a red-and-white striped shortie
jacket with a white sheath, by Amour.
The fashion trick: it shows off slim
hips, yet minimizes the bust.

Continued

UNDERGARMENTS

• If your bosom is large, you'll get
roumlness and control from circular
spoke-stitching on the cups of this ny-
lon-lace bandeau. Maidenform. $3.50.

• For maximum control, try a full-
length bra with double-track stitching
on the cups. This one’s of cotton broad-
cloth, with a full elastic midriff and
criss-cross elastic back so you can
move around easily. Maidenform. A,
B or C cup, $4.95; D cup. $5.95.

• To eliminate the tummy roll that’s
created when you need a bra with ex-
tra control, wear a pantie girdle that
has a plunging waistband that won’t
hind you. Maidenform. $6.50.

from the bottom up

FIGURE TYPE: Too Slim — Don’t fret; with a proper bra
and girdle, you can round out your figure, and with these few
Hollywood fashion tips, wear almost anything. Good for you
are: full skirts, pastels, white, bright colors and bold-patterned
fabrics. So are wide belts and cummerbunds, necklines filled in
with soft scarves or costume jewelry, light colored hose and
shoes, twin sweaters. Diane’s dress by Junior Theme shows
you can look good in a formal that’s not o/Z-covered-up.

• To add form to your bosom,
you need a bra with soft contour
padding, like this one that also
has an elastic release and a
cotton back. Formfit, $3.00.

• Don’t be afraid of a strapless
formal. Wear a strapless bra with
rubber padding for naturalness, like

one of nylon tricot. Plastic stays
are welded into the padding (so
there are no wires to cut into you)
and an elastic back insures a good
and permanent fit. Formfit. $5.95.

• You can add shape to your figure
and look good in straight skirts, too,
with this pantie girdle that has a back
foam-rubber contour panel covered
with rayon jersey. Formfit. $12.50.

FIGURE TYPE: Overweight — Your fashion boners are
too large buttons and belts that call attention, too much full-
ness, bulky fabrics, big collars and fancy cuffs. Try for sim-
plicity, like the Darlyn Junior sheath Diane’s wearing here with
simple €oro beads. Also good for you: two-piece dresses, suits,
sleeved overblouses. (The new tunic is marvelous for you.)
Remember, your clothes should fit easily, and subtle prints,
darker shades and tiny waist pleats make you look slimmer.

Continued

• A fuller figure needs the control of a long bra. For
good separation, this one has a criss-cross elastic front
and, for control, circular stitched cotton cups, bias-cut
elastic side panels and elastic back. Bestform. $5.00.

• To look slim from the waist down, you need a longer
girdle, like this pantie girdle which goes almost to the
knee. So it won’t ride up or down, there’s a one-inch
elastic band at top and bottom and, for extra comfort, a
nylon taffeta front panel and power-net elastic sides and
back. Garters are inside fof smooth fit. Bestform. $3.95.

from the bottom up

FIGURE TYPE: Well-Balanced — You’re lucky, you
can wear almost anything. But, if you’re short, add to
your height by wearing one color at a time, small prints
or vertical lines. Stay away from padding; fullness or
detail at the shoulders; wide, full skirts; tunics or over-
size accessories. (They overwhelm a small figure.) If
you’re tall, you can wear flared, softly pleated and
gored skirts, wide belts, bulky jewelry and big bags. But
if you want to break your height, wear two-toned color
schemes (like the Irene Ricky white tunic Diane wears
here over Capezio’s black tights), two-piece outfits,
tunics, hip and finger-length coats, contrasting belts.

• You can wear a wide variety of clothes, so be sure
your wardrobe includes at least one bra that can be
worn with or without straps, like this one that also has
a complete lastex band for good fit. Lovable, $2.00.

• Even the best figure needs some control. You can get
it with comfort with this power-net pantie girdle that
comes boxed with a supply of disposable inner liners,
to save washing the girdle every night. Lovable. $5.00.

All jewelry by Coro

See Diane in 20th’s “Journey to the Center of
the Earth.”

FOR MORE INFORMATION TURN TO PAGE 70

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THE CONNIE STEVENS STORY
by Bill Tusher

A pretty lady used to come to see
me every six months or so.., they
told me that she was my mother,

BUT TO ME
SHE WAS A
STRANGER

“I’ve got to go now, dear. You just stay in line
with the other children and pretty soon the
teacher will take you inside.” . . . Little Concetta
Ingolia, who was only six, nodded at her aunt’s
words, held herself proudly and tried to smile
confidently, as she stood in the grey stone
schoolyard. Her Aunt Francie waved ( Continued )

(continued)

Connie’s serious about Cary, but she knows how love can fail under strain

BUT TO ME
SHE WAS A

STRANGER

goodbye and went away. It was Concetta
Ingolia’s first day in school — Public School
75 in the Ridgewood section of Brooklyn
—and her heart beat with excitement and
curiosity. Around her, other children of
her age stood waiting, and she noticed that
some looked scared.

In a few minutes, a bell rang and it was
time for all parents to leave. Connie, her-
self, was aware of feeling a little funny,
but she was surprised when the other chil-
dren started to cry. She couldn’t under-
stand. She didn’t feel like crying at all.
Going to school might be different, she
thought, but not as different as all that.

Then, turning around, she suddenly
recognized the little girl who was standing
next to her ... a small child with glasses
and tight banana-like blond curls. She
was Phyllis, and Connie often played with
her on the block. Phyllis’ mouth began to
pucker and tears started to well up in
her eyes as soon as her mother left.

“Don’t cry,” she told Phyllis gently. “I’ll
take care of you.”

And she did. She took Phyllis by the
hand, and led her into the classroom.

It was no phenomenon that Concetta
Ingolia — who was to grow into lovely Con-
nie Stevens, singing star of TV’s “Hawaiian
Eye” series — displayed such uncommon
self reliance on her first day at school.

Most of the other children had never
before left their mothers, but Connie, at
the early age of six, was used to being on
her own. She had already been separated
from her mother for a number of years.
In fact, she couldn’t remember a time when
her mother had not been away, because
her parents were divorced and she lived
with her grandparents.

“I was so used to it,” Connie explains,
“that I could look forward to telling the
other children when my mother was com-
ing to see me. But she wasn’t someone I
really knew. To me she was a stranger- —
just a pretty lady coming to see m^,

someone who smelled good and looked
good, and brought me presents.”

Those shadowy visits which took place
perhaps once every six months left no
mark on Connie.

I was much closer to my grandmother,”
she explains, thinking back to the
earlier, happier years of her childhood.
“If I didn’t see my grandmother for a
while, I would certainly feel the differ-
ence. When my mother left, I would just
go back to playing with my toys.

“The house was always full and lively,”
she recalls. “We were a very large family —
there were a great many aunts and uncles
— and I didn’t miss a mother because I
guess I didn’t really know what a mother
was. I was raised by my grandparents until
I was nine. And, in a way, I felt I had
even more than other children in the
neighborhood. You see, in our family.
Grandpa was called Papa and Grandma,
Mama. So when the other kids talked
about their mamas, I could talk about
mine too. And, if I was ever questioned
very closely, which wasn’t often, I would
simply say my mother was away. I was
very proud because I had a mama and I
had a mother also. I’d tell the other chil-
dren, ‘She’s prettier than yours, too.’ ”
Connie’s mother, Eleanor McGinley, was
a beautiful young singer of Irish, English
and Indian extraction. Her father, a bass
player, was an American of Italian ances-
try. They had married in teenage haste,
stayed together just long enough to have
Connie and her brother Charles, who is six
years older.

“I knew they were divorced before I
was two,” Connie says, “but I don’t recall
ever wondering about it until later. Even
then, I never asked why. I figured they
must have been too young. I liked living
with my grandmother.”

But then, one day when she was nine,
Connie came home from school to be met

at the front door by one of her uncles.

“Connie,” he said softly, and she noticed
he had a funny look on his face. “Come
with me . . . come into the living room.”

“What’s the matter?” she asked, sur-
prised.

And she let him lead her into the living
room, her coat still on and books still
under her arm.

“Connie,” he began, first motioning her
to sit down in an arm chair. “I don’t . . .
I . . . I . . .”

“It’s Mama,” Connie interrupted, with
an almost second sense.

“Yes. She collapsed this morning . . .
she’s . . .”

Connie didn’t have to hear his last word.
She knew it. Suddenly, it felt as though
someone had drained her of all the hap-
piness, all the self-confidence she ever had.
She twisted around and buried her head
in the cushion and cried uncontrollably.

Her uncle slipped quietly out of the
room. He didn’t know what to say.

“When my grandmother died,” Connie
says today, “I knew that my brother, then
in his teens, was at an age when he
wouldn’t want to be bothered with a baby
sister. All my aunts and uncles — my
grandmother’s children — were growing up,
marrying, and moving to homes of their
own. They didn’t have time for me. I
was not their child. I felt left out and
confused.”

Her devoted Aunt Francie did her best
to look after her but she had her
limitations, also.

“After all, Aunt Francie was married
and had her own life,” Connie acknowl-
edges sensitively. “She couldn’t possibly
give me as much attention as she might
have wished. Her place was with her
husband, as it should be. So many times
he would get angry with her for doing
our wash, our clothes and making sure we
acted correctly.”

" Finally, her father, whom she adored
more than anyone on earth, returned
from tour to discover that the problem of
Connie’s care had become acute. He was
away too often to offer her a home so,
with a heavy heart, he entered Connie in
the Mary Help of Christian Boarding
School for Girls in Paterson, New Jersey.

Connie hated being in school. She never
saw her mother, and saw her father only
on the weekends when he was in that part
of the country. She saw her brother most
frequently. Eventually, she grew accus-
tomed to being all alone at school, learned
to like and respect the other girls, and
was never known to complain. Two years
later, just a few weeks before her twelfth
birthday, she returned to her native
Brooklyn, a gentle young lady far removed
from the tomboy she had previously been.

In Connie’s absence, members of the
Ingolia family had bought a three story
building in Brooklyn. Connie and Charles
were given the second floor apartment all
to themselves. Friendly neighbors occu-
pied the apartment above, while Aunt
Francie and her family lived on the first
floor. Busy Aunt Francie looked in on
Connie and Charles whenever she could.

Connie, again all alone, contented her-
self, as much as possible, with roaming
in and out of the homes of her friends.
“I had long chats with their mothers and
I used to wonder, all the time, whether
my mother was like them.” But it became
increasingly difficult for her to turn to her
neighbors and her aunt.

“I was twelve and my brother was
eighteen,” she points out. “He had a lot
' to do, and I couldn’t be included. I was
very young in comparison. And I didn’t
see him very much. I didn’t have too
many people to run with. It was during
these years, with other girls, that I began
to know what I was missing. I started to
feel it the day of my birthday party. When
everyone had left, it seemed I had nobody
at all. My brother had dressed hurriedly
and rushed out on a date, my father was
away on the road, and all I had left was
the emptiness of the house. I was all alone.

“Then, as I got ready for bed, I made a
decision. I would go and see my mother.”

The next morning, Connie dressed in
her best dress of blue and white, scrib-
bled her mother’s address down on a
scrap of paper, stuffed it into the pocket
of her coat and ran to the corner of the
street to take the bus. All the way there,
on the bus, she wondered “Should I really
bother her?” When she got to where
her mother lived, she looked up at the
curtained windows and the thin green
plant that stood at one corner of a win-
dow sill. She was shaking. She climbed
the steps and put her finger to the bell.

The door opened, and a pretty woman
stood before her, her mouth open in
amazement.

“Connie,” she cried. “What’s wrong?”
Connie felt bewildered. She went into
the living room and sat very still on the
couch and looked around at the room.
She had nothing to say and so she tried to
hide her embarrassment by biting vigor-
ously on an apple which her mother had
given her.

“I found myself like her in many ways,”
Connie says today. “I discovered that I
thought like her, and had many of the
same habits. At first I was kind of de-
fensive, but later on, as I went there
more often, I grew to love her as much as
I could, under the circumstances.”

On one visit, Connie blurted out a ques-
tion she had been just bursting to ask.
She looked straight at her mother and
said, “Why . . . why didn’t you come to
my class graduation at school? Why?”
Very simply, with tears welling up in

her eyes, she answered, “Because no one
ever asked me.”

“I felt so sorry for her when she said
that,” Connie recalls. “I understood im-
mediately. I wouldn’t have asked to come,
either, if our places had been reversed. I
would have waited to be invited. And I
hadn’t invited her because I was feeling
defensive, because in my mind I’d felt if
she’d wanted to come she would have
come. So each of us was waiting for the
other to make the first move.

“I remember once,” she continued,
“when my little stepsister, Ava, was
eight years old. She was having her
room redecorated in colors she liked. It
was such a different atmosphere of grow-
ing up from where I lived all alone. And
it entered my mind what I would have
liked if I’d had my own room at that age.
But I refused to feel sorry for myself.”

Then, one day, her father returned home
for good. He’d quit the road. He bundled

She’s used to being on her own.

up Connie and moved to St. Louis. They
lived there six months, then went on to
California.

Meanwhile, in one school after another,
Connie’s singing and dramatic talents
had come to the fore. They brought
popularity and predictions of a glittering
future in the entertainment world. Later,
as the promise of a career loomed more
brightly, her father moved her to Holly-
wood Professional School.

Life in California with her father was
very much to Connie’s liking, until sud-
denly— in her fifteenth year — her father
remarried. Connie and her stepmother
clashed from the start.

Connie explains, “While I was trying
to find what direction my life was to take,
she still treated me like a new toy. I
didn’t want to be treated like a ten-year-
old, so I rebelled. I gave her a pretty bad
time.

“It takes a while to learn some things
if you’re not brought up that way. I had

to be in by ten o’clock at night,” Connie
says. “I had to do homework immediately
after school. I had to eat this and that
because it had vitamins. I had to wash
glasses immediately after I drank anything.
You can’t expect someone to learn that
overnight.”

Yet, despite all this, Connie is the first
to say that her stepmother was merely
exercising the rightful prerogatives of a
conscientious mother.

“I thought she was making a big fuss
over nothing,” Connie shrugs, "but I realize
it was her right to do that. I would have
done the same thing in her place, probably,
but at that time I was furious.”

The big blowup came when Connie’s
stepmother slapped her . . .

“One day,” Connie explains, “we were
all out together and I was sitting on a
stool in a restaurant, talking to another
girl and a busboy about some records.
Something struck us funny and we were
laughing when my stepmother came by.”

“Let’s stop this now once and for all,”
her stepmother snapped. “And stop laugh-
ing at me. You’re driving me crazy!”

“I wasn’t laughing at her at all,” Connie
insists plaintively. “But still she slapped
my face, and I nearly fell off the stool. It
was the only time anyone had ever hit me,
and I don’t think I deserved it. I was
extremely hurt and embarrassed.”

For the rest of the day Connie sank into
a sullen silence. As soon as they got home
she disappeared into her room and even
the pleadings of her father did not change
her mood. For years she had longed for
the pleasure of having a mother and now,
now that she had one, things were not
turning out at all as she had dreamed they
would be. At that moment she wished her
own mother could have been there . . .
but she knew that her mother had another
life, another home which she could never
truly share.

“I think a girl needs a mother most
when she’s a teenager,” Connie says. “It
was hard because there was just no com-
mon ground between my stepmother and
me.”

Later, they patched things up, but when
Connie had an offer to go on tour with
a singing group called The Three Debs,
she grabbed at the chance — not only be-
cause it promised to advance her career,
but because it presented a graceful way
of leaving home.

“I figured that by leaving I could elim-
inate trouble and give my dad a little
happiness,” Connie says earnestly. “I just
decided if I wasn’t around, they’d be
happier and everything would be all
right. But evidently it was not meant to
be. About a year afterward, while I was
away on the road, Dad wrote and told me
they’d broken up. But there are no hard
feelings. My stepmother and I are friends
now.”

For all her trials and tribulations, Con-
nie Stevens is a joyful and compassionate
girl. It is to be expected that she would
have wisdom — and caution — beyond her
twenty-one years, and she does. Some of
that caution — inspired by the knowledge
of what happened when her own parents
married young — has made her somewhat
marriage shy. While she admits, without
coyness, that she is in love with handsome
young singer Gary Clark, she says she is in
no hurry to marry him.

Rarely does she dwell on her childhood
or even look back to it. But, when she
does, it is to say, “Please don’t feel sorry
for me. There are people with far worse
troubles than I have. And one thing I
hate is people who feel sorry for them- p
selves.” THE END

CONNIE IS IN “HAWAIIAN EYE” WED., ABC-TV.
9-10 P.M. EST. SHE SINGS FOR WARNER BROS

from the bottom up

how to get the most
lout of your undergarments

Oras and girdles can do won-
derful things for your figure,
but only if you get the right
size. To find out what size bra
you need, draw a tape measure
around your body just under the
bust. If you measure under 33
inches, add 5; over 33, add 3.
That’s your size. For your cup
size, measure around the fullest
part of the bust. If it’s the same
or smaller than your ribline meas-
urement, you need an A cup. If
it’s an inch larger, you wear a
B; IV2 to 2 inches larger is a C;
more than that’s a D.

Whatever your size, lean for-

ward while putting on and clos-
ing your bra, to keep from
injuring breast glands with im-
proper pressure. Don’t buy a bra
that’s too binding or that has
gaping sides or too-tight straps.

For your girdle size, measure
your waist. Girdles come in inch-
sizes or are marked Extra-Small
(under 24"), Small (24-26"),
Medium (26-28"), Large (28-
31"), Extra-Large (over 31").
The length of your girdle should
match your measurement from
waist to thigh and you should
choose the style according to your
hip development (the difference
between your hip and waist meas-
urements). Don’t be shy when
you’re invited to the fitting room.
The saleslady is trained to fit you
with the proper bra and girdle.

how to improve your figure

• Girdles are more com-
fortable because of to-
day’s miracle fibers, like
•the newest one, Lycra.
Here, it’s used in a
pantie girdle that has
satin lastex panels in
front and back for con-
trol, a 2J4 inch band to
slim your waist and an
open-oval crotch opening.
Perma-Lift. $10.00.

• You’ll feel prettier
and be surer of your-
self if your clothes
are fun and feminine
— from the bottom
up. Like this corselet
of nylon power net
with nylon net pan-
els. Designed for any
figure, its all-in-one
control gives you a
smooth line under
even a figure-hugging
sheath. Olga. $25.00.

continued from page 64

where to buy
Photoplay Fashions

The undergarments shown on pages 60-64 are
available at most good stores across the country.
For further information, write the manufac-
turer listed below. For further information on
the dresses and accessories shown, you can also
write to the manufacturers listed below:

Small Bosom, Large Hips:

BANDEAU AND PANTIE GIRDLE Jantzen, InC.

261 Madison Ave., New York, N. Y.

bouffant dress Junior Theme, Inc.

1400 Broadway, New York, N. Y.

red petticoat Kayser Lingerie Co., Inc.

425 Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y.

Large Bosom, Small Hips:

TWICE-OVER BRA, CHANSONETTE BANDEAU, FRIS-KEE

pantie girdle Maiden Form Brassiere Co.

200 Madison Ave., New York, N. Y.

jacket and sheath Amour Fashions, Inc.

1375 Broadway, New York, N. Y.

hat John Frederics

6 West 57th St., New York, N. Y.

bag Calderon Belts & Bags Inc.

389 Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y.

Too Slim:

STRAPLESS BRA, PADDED BRA, PANTIE GIRDLE

Formfit Company
400 South Peoria, Chicago 7, 111.

formal dance dress Junior Theme, Inc.

1400 Broadway, New York, N. Y.

Overweight:

LONG-LINE BRA, LONC GIRDLE

Bestform Foundations, Inc.
180 Madison Ave., New York, N. Y.

sheath dress Darlyn Junior, Inc.

1400 Broadway, New York N. Y.

hat John Frederics

6 West 57th St., New York, N. Y.

bac Lona Handbags, Inc.

136 Madison Ave., New York, N. Y.

Well-Balanced:

STRAPLESS bra, pantie cirdle

Lovable Brassiere Co.
180 Madison Ave., New York, N. Y.

WHITE TUNIC Ilene Ricky, Inc.

1407 Broadway, New York, N. Y.

tights Capezio

756 Seventh Ave., New York, N. Y.

Perma-Lift Lycra pantie girdle:

A. Stein & Co.

1149 W. Congress, Chicago 7, 111.

Corselet:

Olga Company

7915 Haskell, Van Nuys, Calif.

los anceles, calif J. W. Robinson

Houston, texas Battelstein’s

new York, N. Y Bloomingdale s

KANSAS city, mo Woolf Bros.

All Jewelry:

Coro Inc.

47 West 34th St., New York, N. Y.

All Gloves:

Wear-Right Gloves, Inc.

244 Madison Ave., New York, N. Y.

All Shoes:

Capezio

756 Seventh Ave., New York, N. Y.

DIANNE LENNON

Continued, from page 51

It all really began as long as thirteen
years ago when seven-year-old Dianne
Lennon was in the third grade of grammar
school in Venice, California. She was visit-
ing her grandmother who lived down the
street, one day, when a boy from her
class, Michael Gass, asked if she’d like to
shoot marbles. Michael was a pretty good
shot, and she really had to concentrate to
stay even with him.

Suddenly, as she was kneeling in the
center of the shooting circle, carefully
aiming at a marble more than a foot away,
a shadow fell across the ground just as she
shot. She missed. She groaned, glaring up
at the boy who had made the shadow.

“That’s my brother,” said Michael,
pointing to the intruder.

“Hi,” Dianne grunted, unimpressed, and
turned her attention back to the marbles.

That was her first — and brief — introduc-
tion to Dick Gass.

It wasn’t until she was a freshman at
St. Monica High that Dianne saw Dick
again, although since the day he’d made
her miss a marble-shot, she’d certainly
heard a lot about him from Mike. During
this time, Dick had gone away to study to
be a priest, and then one day Mike told
her that Dick had changed his mind. “Dick’s
coming home!” was the way Mike put it.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Dianne thought to her-
self, unconcerned. And she put the whole
thing out of her mind.

Then one afternoon soon after, in the
school yard at St. Monica’s, she met Dick.
It was Gail Armstrong, a senior, who
brought them together, during a freshman
initiation Dianne was going through which
included doing crazy, foolish things that
upperclassmen ordered.

Gail said, “Do you see that cute boy over
there?” Dianne nodded as she pointed to a
good-looking fellow on the other side of
the yard.

Dianne gulped as Gail continued. “Well,
he’s Dick Gass . . . already a V.I.P. in the
Junior class . . . now, can you guess what
I want you to do?”

Dianne shook her head.

“I want you to walk over to him,” Gail
said, “get down on your hands and knees,
and ask him to marry you. And make it
real good. From the heart. Or I’ll make you
do it over again.”

Somehow Dianne, blushing already, got
across the schoolyard to where Dick was
standing. She got down on her knees in
front of him, closed her eyes tight, and
blurted out, “My name is Dianne Lennon.
I love you very much. I can’t live without
you. Will you marry me?”

“What?” Dick asked, somewhat aston-
ished.

She opened her eyes slowly and looked
into Dick’s bewildered face. She actually
felt her cheeks turning beet red. Then
slowly and torturously she repeated, “My
name is Dianne Lennon. I love you very
much. I can’t live without you. Will you
marry me?” When she reached the words
“marry me” she choked.

Dick reached down to help her to her
feet, but she was too embarrassed to take
his outstretched hand. All she wanted to
do was to disappear into thin air. So she
scrambled to her feet by herself and ran
across the schoolyard into an empty class-
room, peeking over her shoulder only
once to see if Dick was looking. She saw
that he was still shaking his head in be-
wilderment.

Ohe wasn’t aware of purposely avoiding
O Diclc Gass after that, but somehow they
never managed to run into each other.

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So she was completely surprised in June,
1957, when Dick — who had by this time
graduated from school and become a cable-
splicer for the telephone company — called
her and asked for a date.

She was already singing on the Lawrence
Welk show by this time and had a busy
rehearsal schedule that week. So she
turned him down, convincing henself the
old embarrassment when she’d been a
freshman had had nothing at all to do
with it.

She didn’t hear from him again all sum-
mer and had practically forgotten he ex-
isted, when one day her phone rang. It
was Dick again. He’d been away, he told
her, traveling all over the United States.
Now that he was back, he wondered if
they might go out on a date.

For her, it was another tight week of
rehearsing, but there was something at-
tractive about his voice . . . “Yes,” she
heard herself saying. “When?”

“How about next Saturday?” he asked.
“Pick you up right after lunch. Want to
go someplace special?” Dick asked.

“No. Wherever you want. It’s up to you.”

As she put the phone back on the hook,
she suddenly wondered if she’d recognize
him when he came to the house. After all,
the two times she’d met him, so far, she’d
been down on her knees and the only
thing she remembered clearly about Dick
Gass was his shoes!

Saturday rehearsal didn’t go too well.
She kept wondering if she’d be home and
ready when Dick arrived. She hated to
keep a boy waiting, especially on a first
date. And then her sister, Peggy, wasn’t
much help. Peggy was all excited. She had
a date for the St. Monica homecoming foot-
ball game and dance, and every time there
was a break between numbers she kept
chattering about it. A couple of times she
hugged Dianne and said, “Wouldn’t it be
great if you and Dick came along to the
game and dance with my date and me?”
Dianne wanted to say that she really didn’t
want to go, but Peggy just chattered on
all the way home, not letting her get a
word in edgewise. From all this, their dad,
Bill Lennon, got the idea that Dianne and
Dick planned to go to the game and to the
dance, too.

Dianne was upstairs dressing when she
heard a car pull up in front of their house.
As Dick walked toward the door, she saw,
from her upstairs window, that he was
good-looking.

Downstairs, her father let Dick in, shook
his hand, and said, “I hear you and Dianne
are going to the football game and dance?”

Dick blinked for a moment, and then he
smiled and nodded “Yes.” He hadn’t
planned to go, but if that’s what Dianne
wanted. . . .

At this point, Dianne came downstairs
and joined them. “Let’s hurry,” Dick said
to her, “or we’ll be late for the game.”
She didn’t really want to go to the game
and dance, but if that’s what Dick
wanted . . .

When they got outside, Dick opened
the car door for her and she started to step
in. She just took it for granted that there
was a running board and didn’t bother
looking down. But there wasn’t, and she
stepped down into a large mud-puddle at
the curb. Her shoe, her stocking, and the
bottom of her skirt were covered with
mud. She was so embarrassed.

It was too late to go back to the house
and change. So they drove on.

St. Monica won the football game but
neither Dianne nor Dick really cared. They
tried to make small talk, but in their
hearts they both knew their date was a
miserable failure.

At the dance, Dianne wanted to fade into
the background. Even though she’d done
her best to make the necessary repairs to
her clothes, she felt awful.

The music started, a fast, snappy num-
ber, and Dick turned toward her, ready to
dance. “It’s a good song for a jitterbug,” he
said.

“I don’t know how to jitterbug,” she
answered.

So he just shrugged and went off and
danced with his sister who was also
there. Dick danced a lot with his sister,
that night, because somehow the band
seemed to play mostly fast numbers. He
didn’t offer to teach Dianne to jitterbug;
he’d just listen to the first few bars of the
song, shake his head if it was a fast num-
ber, and leave her to dance with his sister.
She just couldn’t wait to get home.

She wouldn’t have minded at all if Dick
had never wanted to see her again,
but during the week it seemed he de-
cided to give it one more try. He phoned
and asked her to go to a movie Saturday.
She found herself saying “Yes” once
again. On Saturday, she woke up with a
terrible sore throat and had to cancel the
date.

It was pouring rain when they finally
went out together again, and she found
herself sloshing through puddles in her
galoshes to reach his car. This time he not
only held open the door for her, but he
also helped her into the car, and for the

first time they both laughed. During the
next few hours, it seemed that everything
they did made them laugh. She could
hardly believe the change.

It was a crazy date. It had been raining
for days and the streets were flooded. The
telephone company had been called upon
to make many repairs all over Venice and
the surrounding communities. So Dick
drove Dianne out to Ocean Park, in the
middle of Highway 101, to say hello to his
friends down in the manholes — the fellows
doing emergency repairs.

In the days that followed there were
many more fun dates. And whenever Dick
was working for the phone company near
Dianne’s house, he’d attach his test phone
to the main line and call her.

By the time November 1 rolled around,
the date of her eighteenth birthday, they
knew each other well enough for Dianne
to ask Dick to be with her on that special
occasion — a party at the Aragon Ballroom.

Unlike that time at the St. Monica vic-
tory dance, the music was all sweet and
slow, and Dick and Dianne danced almost
every dance together. He’d given her a
statue of St. Joseph, her favorite saint. And
she’d jokingly slipped a carrot on his
plate at the table — he loved carrots.

The slow, haunting melody of “My
Funny Valentine” added to the illusion,
and, as they danced, Dick’s lips brushed
her cheek. She kept her eyes closed
tightly, wanting to hold on to that precious
moment forever.

They went everywhere together, after
that, but their favorite date was just
riding the little open-air tram from
Venice to Ocean Park to Santa Monica
and back again.

Gradually, Dianne felt she was falling in
love. “It didn’t happen any one special
day,” she explained. “Trumpets didn’t blow
and drums didn’t rattle.” It was just slowly
that Dianne realized Dick was the only
one for her.

“I think it had something to do with the
fact that he felt the same way about so
many things as I do,” she said. “He’s also
deeply religious, and we both found we
enjoyed so much together, like listening
to records and going for long walks by
the sea. He also wants lots of children,
like I do. And I loved the way he would
make me laugh at so many little things
that happened. Perhaps, also, it was be-
cause he conveniently forgot that first
time I proposed to him!

“I admired the way he took pride in his
work and the way he dreamed a home
should be. And,” she added laughingly, “I
loved him just because he was crazy about
raw carrots!”

On the night of February 28, 1958, Dick
proposed. He parked in front of her house,
late that night, and asked her to sit with
him a while. The moon, which had been
hiding behind the clouds for hours, sud-
denly popped out in full view. This seemed
to be some sort of omen or cue for Dick,
because suddenly he said softly: “Deed?”
He called her by the pet name he alone
used. “Deed, I know it’s kind of soon
because we haven’t been going out long.
But Deed, you know . . . you must know
how much I love you.” Then he paused and
said simply, “Will you marry me?” Then
he looked down, somewhat embarrassed.

“Yes,” Dianne whispered as she leaned
toward him. “Yes, yes, yes!” And they
kissed, very gently and softly.

They wanted to rush into the house and
tell her folks and then hurry over to his
house and tell his family. Instead, they
sat in the car and tried to talk rationally
and make plans. They wouldn’t tell any-
one, they decided. Dianne’s singing con-
tract had at least two years more to run,
and they couldn’t marry until those two
years were over. After all, he was deter-

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4-60

mined to be the breadwinner of the family
— not her. For them, too, it was silly to be
formally engaged because neither believed
in long engagements. Each knew how the
other felt, and for the time being, that was
enough.

For weeks, Dianne walked on air. She
had never kept a secret before — a really
important secret — from her parents and
sisters. She wanted so much to tell them
but she couldn’t. So she walked around,
keeping her happiness locked up inside.

Then came the evening, less than a
month later, when Dick phoned and asked,
“What would you say if I told you I was
thinking of going into service?”

She wanted to cry out “No” and “I’d
feel awful,” but instead she controlled her
voice and said, “I’d be very surprised, I
guess.”

She listened as he went on to tell her
that there were more advantages to en-
listing in the Army than waiting to be
called. “Deed,” Dick said finally, “I know
this means I won’t hardly see you at all
for two years. But isn’t it better that I go
now instead of after we’re married?”

“Of course it’s better,” she answered. “I
understand.” But as she hung up the re-
ceiver, her hand trembled. And there were
tears in her eyes as she walked away.

The following Saturday, Dick phoned
her at the studio to say he’d signed up.
But somehow she didn’t really believe
he was going until she actually saw his
official induction notice two weeks later,
ordering him to report for duty on May
29th.

After he left, she sent him silly, senti-
mental letters in which she enclosed
souvenirs of home: white sand from the
beach, a piece of icing from one of mom’s
marble cakes, a tram ticket, a sliver of
raw carrot, a menu from the Aragon. And

she marked off the days on her desk cal-
endar, one by one, waiting for Dick to
return.

In July, he came home on leave and they
spent a marvelous week together. Then, in
October, Dick drove all night from Fort
Ord to Venice, and waited all day at the
studio while Dianne and her sisters re-
hearsed. And then they were able to go
out Saturday night and to spend part of
Sunday together before he returned to
camp.

Yet, apart from Christmas, Dianne didn’t
see Dick again until June, 1959, when he
came home for twenty-two glorious days.
The first night he came over to her house
in his new paratrooper uniform, and her
sisters and brothers treated him like the
conquering hero. He whispered to Dianne
that he wanted twelve babies just like
her. Then they went over to his house
where all his friends had gathered to
greet him.

On their first Sunday, Dick took her for
a drive. He headed the car out to Route
101 toward Malibu, and then pulled over
to the side of the road. “Deed,” he said,
“I’m going to ask you something. I won’t
be out of the Army until June, 1960, but
what would you feel about getting a ring
now?” He watched her eyes open wide.

“Yes,” she said, delighted. “Yes.” And
Dick whooped so loud that she was sure
his buddies down in Fort Bragg heard him.

They decided to tell their families on the
next Saturday night, the Fourth of
July. Bill and Sis Lennon always took
all the kids to the beach to watch the fire-
works display and that seemed like a
good time and place to break the news.

Dick took Dianne out to dinner first and
slipped a ring — a beautiful ring they’d
chosen together — on her finger, and then
they went looking for her family. They

found the Lennons’ car parked, back end
to the ocean. All the kids were sprawled
out on the sand watching the fireworks
in the sky, when Dianne and Dick walked
over.

“Hi folks,” Dick said, clearing his throat
and feeling Dianne’s fingernails pressing
into the back of his hand. “We have some-
thing to tell you. Deed and I are engaged.”
Dianne held up her ring-finger for her
parents to see.

They all shrieked and cried and em-
braced Dianne and Dick.

Finally they both broke away and drove
over to tell Mr. and Mrs. Gass the news.
“I knew it! I knew it!” Dick’s mother cried.
Dick’s dad didn’t say much, but his eyes
showed how pleased he was.

The next day, Dick and Dianne went to
Mass together. The feel of the engage-
ment ring on her finger was still so new,
that she was aware of the pressure almost
every moment. “A year isn’t so very long,”
she thought. “Then Dick will be out of the
Army and we’ll get married.” She turned
to look at Dick at her side and found that
he was looking at her, too. And she won-
dered if Dick had been thinking the same
things she had. His fingers locked with
hers, and they both gazed thoughtfully
down the long aisle that led to the altar

. . the aisle they’d soon be walking down
together.

And, as she looked along it, Dianne
thought again about love, about how she
knew she loved Dick. “Love,” she decided,
“is knowing you want to be with someone
always, realizing how very special life
suddenly seems when you are with them
and how empty it is otherwise.”

—JIM HOFFMAN

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STRICTLY PERSONAL

Continued from page 32

me? Sure I shout and lose my temper
sometimes . . . but doesn’t everyone?”

She’s seventeen and she wants people
to like her. She’s shy and thoughtful and
pretty much like any other seventeen-
year-old. “But I’m scared of growing up,”
she confides seriously. “Really scared.
That’s one thing I don’t want to do. I’m
satisfied with being seventeen. And one
of the things I dread most is being twenty-
five. Why? I really don’t know except,
after that, you’re nearly thirty. And thirty
seems too old.”

She looks up and then goes off into a
daydream. “I’m always daydreaming,” she
says, “especially when I’m listening to
show tunes. They’re my favorite music. I
curl up in a big chair at home, take my
shoes off, tuck my feet under me, close
my eyes and often imagine marvelous
things while the records whirl. Like what
I’ll be doing ten years from now and
what it will be like to really fall in love.”

Suddenly she looks up, cocks her head
to one side and says, “I hope you don’t
mind listening to all this, but I’ve got no
one else to tell these things to. I do have
one girlfriend, but she’s in New York and
Mother simply refuses to let me make
another call to her this month.

“Of course,” she continues, “I fall in
love now all the time, but I like to dream
about other times . . . times when I’ll
be more grown up and the person I’ll be
in love with will ask me to marry him.
Do other girls do this?

“In my dreams,” she confides, “I’m danc-
ing with this man (who looks a lot like
Cary Grant with overtones of Sir Laurence
Olivier) and he knows just how to make
everyday routine of marriage a prolonged,
glamorous courtship.

“We have a thirty-room mansion and
also four beautifully-behaved children. I
always dream about four children and a
house with thirty rooms and dozens of
servants,” she says.

A dream orchestra on the patio is play-
ing music from “My Fair Lady,” and her
dream husband sweeps her into his arms.
“He’s careful not to crush my champagne
chiffon gown,” she says, “or the spray of
orchids he just gave me.

“My dream dress is champagne,” she ex-
plains, “because champagne is my favorite
color. I like it because it goes so well with
my hair. And the first time I ever went
to a real grown-up dance, I was wearing

champagne silk and had the time of my
life.

“Talking of clothes,” she goes on, “I love
bulky things . . . bulky sweaters, bulky
skirts and bulky belts. And shoes, shoes
and more shoes although,” she admits, as
she begins trailing her toes through the
sand, “I love to run barefoot even more.

“I love jewelry too. In fact I love it so
much that I don’t even have to buy it to
enjoy it. I just go into a jewelry shop and
look at things, pretending they are mine,
and it’s so much fun. I like rings espe-
cially.”

Rings have had a special meaning for
her since she was a little girl, she
explains, telling how she got her first
one, which really wasn’t meant for her at
all. She was sitting with her parents at
dinner, one night, when her father drew
a small box from his pocket and handed
it to her mother. Sandra’s eyes opened
wide. She loved surprise packages. She
jumped up and down on her seat and cried,
“Let me open it. Please, let me,” she
begged, reaching for the box.

“No,” said her father. “It’s for your
mother.”

She watched while her mother opened
the package and gasped when she saw,
nestled in the midst of cotton and tissue,
the most exquisite ring of diamonds and
topaz.

“Oh,” she sighed. “It’s beautiful. It’s
the most beautiful ring I ever saw.”

She watched closely as her mother tried
it on, struggling to push it down her finger.
A few moments later, her mother turned
to her father and said, “I’m sorry, darling.
But it’s just too small. Yet it’s so lovely
it seems a shame not to keep it.”

“I’ll have it,” shouted Sandra.

Her father grinned. He winked at her
mother and then picked up the ring and
tossed it across at Sandy. “But you mustn’t
wear it until you’re very much older,” he
warned. “Promise me.”

“Of course, of course,” she agreed, de-
lighted at her new treasure. So, for many
months, she kept it carefully wrapped in
jeweler’s cloth in the bottom drawer of
her dressing table, taking it out only to
clean and polish it (which actually was
once a day).

“When I go on a date today,” she says,
“I sometimes wear that ring ... if it’s a
special occasion. On casual dates though,
I just wear simple clothes and not much
jewelry. It’s more comfortable that way.
But have you seen some of those ‘mannish’
styles some girls wear? I hate them,” she
says, and then giggles and she looks down
at the pants and shirt she is wearing.

“But my secret love,” she continues, “is
black. I got my first black cocktail dress
last year and it’s wonderful. Does every
one get so excited over their first black
dress?

“And I’m beginning to experiment with
hats too,” she adds, tilting her nose in
the air and putting on a scornful, suave
expression. “One that I like is a pink
Easter bonnet with poppies on it. I feel
so sophisticated in a hat.”

But the next minute the little girl in <
her comes out again when she pouts and
says, “I do still have terrible crushes on
people . . . like Spencer Tracy and Kath-
arine Hepburn. I haven’t even met some
of the people I’m crazy about and I’m
not sure if I really want to meet them.
Because now I think they’re so perfect j
and they couldn’t possibly live up to ex-
pectation . . . could they? And some-
thing I hate is to be disappointed.” j

She laughs as a sudden gust of wind j
blows strands of her hair wild, puts j.
her hands up to her head to straighten a
it, then lays her hands on her cheeks and ■
says, “I haven’t any makeup on at all. j
None at all. I hate to wear the stuff on
weekends, and I guess that’s a terrible
admission for someone who’s been brought
up to know how important it is. I used J
to think it was tremendous fun to watch |
the older models- — when I was modeling — (
and copy them. And now I don’t any (
more. Isn’t that odd?

“But I love all the new makeup fads,”
she admits. “I fall for every one of them. L
When I can’t sleep at night, I often go
into the bathroom very early in the morn- ^
ing and experiment with all sorts of eye
makeup and new lipstick colors. I must
have gone through the entire range of
fads from white lipstick and no rouge to [
V-bird shaped eyebrows. Once or twice
my mother caught me in the bathroom
and couldn’t understand what in the world
I was doing awake at that time. She was
pretty mad and told me to go back to bed
immediately.”

Next moment she laughs again as her
poodle jumps into her plaid beach bag.
“See my dog,” she says. “I cried over a
dog once . . . cried and cried and cried so
much that my parents were frantic with
worry.

“I was about six and I wanted a toy
pomeranian more than anything in the
world,” she recalls. “Daddy said I couldn’t
have one because our family dog, a black
cocker, had already been banished to the
garage because it kept on getting dog hair
all over the furniture. And a pom, he
said, would have to live in the house and
then it would make a mess.”

That year she’d wanted one so badly,
she explains, that one night, while her
mother was undressing her for bed, she
found that Sandra had broken out in a
funny pink rash. They were going to call
the doctor, but Sandra sulked and said,
“No. It will go away if you just buy me
a dog.”

They called a doctor anyway, and he
said that it was a nervous rash. So, a few
days later, her father took her aside just
before bedtime and said, “There’ll be a
surprise for you at Christmas.”

Little Sandra’s eyes lit up. That meant
a dog for sure, she thought, and ran hap-
pily to her room.

But Christmas Eve came . . . and there
was no dog under the tree. And she al-
ways got her presents on Christmas Eve.
She waited up until her father got home,
but he arrived empty-handed. Seeing him
open the door, with nothing more than
just a handful of colored lights and Christ-
mas wrappings, she turned away and ran
sobbing to her room.

Her mother came running after her.
“What’s the matter, darling?” she said.

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seeing Sandra lying face down on the bed.

“I thought . . she whimpered, “I
thought . . . you were getting me ... a
dog.”

And Sandra cried and cried and cried.

Her mother patted her soothingly on
the head and then went back to the living
room. From her bed, Sandra could hear
her parents talking in subdued voices.

Then her mother returned. “Please stop
crying,” she pleaded. “Please . . .” And
Sandra saw that her face was quite white.

Just a few minutes later, she heard
yelping noises and a tiny little puppy
come trotting into the room, followed
closely by Sandra’s father.

“Oh,” she cried. “My dog, my dog, my
dog!” And she climbed down from the
bed and ran to cuddle it.

“I found out later,” Sandy explains,
“that Daddy had actually brought the dog
home with him that night . . . but had
come home, once before, earlier, with the
dog, while I was still out at a friend’s
house. Then he went out and came back
again. They’d wanted to surprise me with
it in the morning. They hadn’t realized
I’d get so upset.”

As she finishes speaking, she runs her
hands along the sand, looks thought-
ful for a moment and then adds, “I
loved my stepfather. A few years ago,
when he fell ill, I used to spend hours
cooking him his favorite dishes. That’s
j when I really learned to cook.

“I often made him salads, and because
he was very particular about his foods, I
was always extremely careful with the
dressing: it had to be tasty. One of my
specialties today is a very elaborate dish
of lobster, cooked with rice, mushrooms
and onions. I made up the recipe myself.”

| In fact, she says, she often experiments
j in the kitchen. Occasionally she cuts

recipes out of women’s magazines — just
like a housewife. She says her mother
doesn’t object. She enjoys watching her
cook.

Suddenly she stops talking, rests her
chin on her hands and says, “Do you
know, I often get bored? All of a sudden,
nothing seems interesting. Not any of
the many many things I usually love to
do in my spare time . . . like reading. I
read best-sellers mostly. And listen to
records. I guess I never cared too much for
sports, although sometimes I go horseback
riding and bicycling. I’m not too fond of
bowling either. But if I’m out with a crowd
and they suggest bowling, I go along and
pretend to have a good time.”

Occasionally for a pastime, she says,
she plays cards, but not too often. She
doesn’t like bridge, but enjoys canasta.
She also likes to drive when she has a
chance and is considered a good driver.
“Once,” she admits, “I got a warning for
driving too fast and since then I’ve slowed
down. I guess there’s no sense in taking
chances.” Sometimes, even though she
looks like thirteen and is actually seven-
teen, she sounds like twenty-five.

She looks very serious and says, “I have
problems. Real problems, although people
never believe this. Do you know I don’t
really have a girlfriend? I’ve been at
professional school or the studio school
for several years, and I haven’t had the
chance to mix the way other girls do. I
long for someone to confide in, to spend
the night with and talk for hours and
hours ... to discuss boys with and dates
and clothes. I have one girlfriend — the
one I told you about — but she’s in New
York. And long-distance calls are so ex-
pensive.

“I have worries too. I worry about my
weight and my mother thinks it’s foolish.
I worry about boys, too, and making a

fool of myself on dates, like the time a
boy took me to a high school dance. . . .

As soon as we got there,” she recalls, “he
wanted to jitterbug. I can’t jitterbug
but I felt awkward about telling him
so. So I let him lead me onto the floor
and then, of course, he found out imme-
diately. My feet just seemed to be going
in all directions but the right one. He
was very kind and offered to teach me. I
didn’t know what to say because I was
sure everyone in the room was staring.
Finally I suggested we wait for something
slower. I felt like such a fool, because
all the other girls of my age, all the girls
in the room, in fact, were dancing around
the floor as though they’d been born to it.

“Later that year Rick Nelson tried to
teach me, but he didn’t succeed either.”

Most of the boys she dates, she says, are
young stars like Rick or Sal Mineo.

She also worries about talking too much.
“I’d hate to be labeled a bore,” she says
and confides, “I often say things, too, that
are tactless. But I don’t mean to — and I
am trying to change.”

She worries about losing her temper
and she knows she’s untidy. “I’m terrible
about not picking up my clothes,” she says.
“When I’m home you can trail me by the
things I’ve dropped.” Then she adds, co-
quettishly, “But I never, never go out
without brushing my hair neatly and mak-
ing sure my nail polish isn’t chipped.”

Then she tosses her head, stands up and
says, “But I’m talking too much again.
And all about me. It’s strictly personal.”
And she picks up her beach bag (which
still has her poodle inside) and runs off
down the sand toward home. The End

WATCH FOR SANDRA IN U.I.’s “PORTRAIT IN
BLACK” AND LISTEN FOR HER VOICE IN “the
SNOW QUEEN” FOR U.I. SHE SINGS FOR DECCA.

Yesterday Jim brought me roses

I thought I was a good wife and mother . . .
but I almost made a fatal mistake.

When the children were small I was often
too busy to fuss over my husband when he
left for work or returned . . . and too busy
to take the right care of myself.

When the children started to school and
began to criticize my looks, I woke up to the
fact that I was doing an injustice both to
myself and my family.

I talked to a friendly neighbor. How did
she manage to look so fresh and attractive?

“I’ll tell you my secret,” she laughed. “No
matter how tired or rushed I am, I always
give myself a one-minute lather-massage
morning and night with Cuticura Soap.”

I decided to try Cuticura Soap. In just a
few days my skin began to bloom. This inspired me to
take better care of my hair and figure. Most importantly,
I stopped taking my patient, uncomplaining husband for
granted.

You know, he must have appreciated the change because
yesterday Jim brought me roses.

When blemishes occur, get the full treatment. Along with
superemollient Cuticura Soap get soothing Cuticura Oint-
ment to overcome dryness and relieve pimples and black-
heads . . . cooling Cuticura Medicated Liquid to keep blem-
ished skin antiseptically clean, curb oiliness, dry up pimples
fast. In soap and toiletry sections everywhere. Canada also.

NICK ADAMS

Continued from page 37

gested to Carol that she might look there.
Their baby was due in the spring. “But
what’s wrong with that . . . why the teal's?”
he asked, puzzled.

“Because . . . because it means you don’t
love me any more. You can’t love me any
more if you can make such a cheap sug-
gestion for our baby. And only yesterday
you said that nothing, not anything in the
world, would ever be too good for me.
Men are so unpredictable,” she finished.
"Husbands especially.”

Nick looked startled, then for a moment
they just stood staring at each other, not
saying a word.

Suddenly Nick blurted out, “No kid of
mine is going to wear fancy clothes when
all he’ll do at the beginning is run around
and wear them out anyhow!”

Another silence followed.

“Maybe I never really knew you,” she
said quietly.

“You’re so sensitive,” Nick grumbled. “I
only suggested. . . .”

There was a knock at the door. Nick
went over to answer it. It was a neighbor
from across the hall who was standing
holding an empty cup in her hand. “Could
you spare a little coffee?” she asked. “I’m
completely out.”

Carol hung her head, hoping the neighbor
wouldn’t see her red eyes. Then, as Nick
went into the kitchen to fetch some, she
fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief
and began blowing her nose vigorously, as
though she had a heavy cold. “I can’t let
her see I’ve been crying,” Carol thought,
embarrassed.

“Hay fever?” asked the neighbor.

“Oh . . . yes,” Carol answered. “I’ve suf-
fered a lot this year.”

“That’s a shame.” said the .neighbor.
And, seeing Nick, added, “Your poor wife.”

“Poor wife?” repeated Nick, looking puz-
zled.

“Yes . . . her hay fever.”

“Hay fever!”

“Yes, darling,” said Carol thinking very
quickly, and deciding how slow men can be
to catch on at times. “You know how I
suffer.” Then, turning to the neighbor, she
added, “He’s been so sweet about it. Keeps
insisting I take pills although I know they
do no good.”

The woman took the coffee from Nick,
thanked them, started to leave, then turned

and said casually, “You two certainly have

fixed your place up grand. You are really
lucky kids. Yes, you sure are lucky . . .
my daughter’s been married eight years
next March. She and her husband haven’t
been able to have a child yet. Oh, they
don’t say anything, but you can tell they
feel something’s missing in their lives . . .
well, I hope I haven’t bothered you. . . .”

As soon as the door closed, they looked
at each other sheepishly.

“Hay fever,” scolded Nick, playfully.
“Only my wife could think of something
like that.”

“I guess she’s right, Nick. We are lucky.”
And she ran over to Nick to kiss him.
“I’m sorry I shouted,” she said. “It’s all
my fault.”

“No, it was mine,” Nick insisted. And
for the moment, everything was quiet
again. Then they both roared and Nick
grabbed her, lifted her up and dumped
her on the sofa. “It was my fault,” he in-
sisted, threatening to tickle her if she
didn’t agree. She nodded yes because she
was laughing too hard to answer.

“Remember,” she asked, when finally
she caught her breath. “Remember we
said we’d never argue again — after our
first one on our honeymoon.” And she
smiled as she pushed back his hair
gently . . .

She and Nick had been sitting close to-
gether on an old-fashioned love seat in
front of a crackling, red-orange fire.
It had felt cozy and warm, just as she’d
dreamed it would be. Outside, the wind
was blowing gently, making a whistling
sound as it rushed past the trees.

They’d been married just forty-eight
hours and were spending their honeymoon
in a white-frame cottage, snuggled in be-
tween giant fir trees, and overlooking a big
blue lake. The resort, Lake Arrowhead,
only a few hours drive from Hollywood,
was nearly deserted at that time of year,
so she and Nick had almost an entire
mountain to themselves. It was beautiful
and quiet; a perfect place, she had thought,
for two people in love who are all in-
volved with the newness of each other.

They had sat silently, for a while, hold-
ing hands and then suddenly they began
talking about the future, about all the
things they were going to do together.
Then, almost together, they got onto the
question of the past, learning all the
little things about each other that they
hadn’t had time to discuss during their
very brief courtship.

In fact, they’d only met a month before —

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when they’d gone, separately, to a big

Hollywood party and, they later decided,
were drawn to each other by some mag-
netic-like force that was neither explain-
able nor logical. He’d asked her name.
They’d begun to chat. He’d taken her
home. They’d sat parked in his car in
front of her house talking until the first
rays of the sun came up. Later that day,
they’d gone to the beach, then out to din-
ner. Twenty-one days later, Nick had
slipped a diamond ring on her finger and,
after an eight day engagement, they’d flown
to Las Vegas, along with her parents and
sister and a few close friends of Nick, to
be married. Then they’d flown right back
to Hollywood, spent their wedding night
in Nick’s bachelor apartment and, since
he had only two days free before starting
a TV show, they’d left early the next
morning for the lake.

“Nick,” she’d said suddenly. “When —
when we have children, what would you
like to call them?”

“Children!” Nick quipped. “Sounds like
you have a whole brood in mind.”

“No . . . not really. Just maybe two . . .
or three.”

Nick had been silent for a moment.
“Reb’s a good name for a boy,” he said at
length. “But it’s a long way off.”

“Reb . . . Reb,” she’d repeated. “It’s
strong. Or Mark?”

“Mmm,” said Nick, not so convinced.

“Bet you’ll be a strict father,” she’d
teased.

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” she’d laughed at his stern ex-
pression. “It’s good ... as long as you’re
not too strict.”

Well, I don’t believe in sparing the rod,”
he’d said. “And I also think a kid should
learn by his own mistakes.”

“. . . by his own mistakes! That’s an
awful way to treat a child!” she’d said.

And suddenly, they were having their
first argument — about how to raise chil-
dren . . and they were only on their
honeymoon. And they learned something.
When you’re deeply in love, when you’re
learning to live together, when you want
to be perfect for each other, just every-
thing is important. And when everything
is important, as Nick would laugh many
times, you’re sure to argue.

“It’s because I love you so much that
every little thing matters,” Nick had said
when, two seconds later, they had made
up and were appalled that they should
have shouted at each other. And she had
agreed.

“Sometimes it’s hard to understand the
person fully when you’re so caught up
with the newness of marriage,” Carol says
today. Now she knows why Nick feels this
way about bringing up children. What’s
more, she agrees with him.

It was because they’d been raised differ-
ently. She’d always been sheltered, sur-
rounded not only by close family ties but
by economic security. She’d never known
hunger or what it was like to scrounge for
a living or how it felt to want something
so much you could almost taste it. But
Nick did.

He’d been raised in a hard working fam-
ily who’d never had more than basic neces-
sities— something he wanted his children
to know about so they could appreciate
all that they had.

After their two-day honeymoon, they’d
come back to town, found a nice apart-
ment and moved right in. Nick had
teased her and insisted she’d only wanted
the place because of its pink kitchen.

And she’d laughed and admitted that
maybe this was true. And they’d gone to
look for furniture and had fun picking out
the pieces they wanted. It had all been
so wonderful, setting up their new home.
She had promised herself that she was

going to be an understanding, thoughtful,
practical, helpful— well, just perfect — wife.

She’d even decided she would never let
her husband go to work without getting
up at 5:30 in the morning to make him
a good breakfast. It was the duty of a good
wife to do so. So, very quietly, she’d slipped
out of bed at five o’clock and tiptoed into
the kitchen to begin preparing it. Mean-
while, he’d gotten out of bed and by the
time he was washed and dressed, she had
had an inviting meal of bacon, eggs, toast
and hot sweet rolls waiting for him. He’d
gone whistling into the kitchen, yet, the
moment he saw the meal, an odd, disap-
pointed expression clouded his face. But
he didn’t say a word. He just hugged her
and sat down and finished everything she’d
set before him. “After all that bother,”
she’d thought, when he left, “he didn’t so
much as say ‘thank you.’ Just like a man.”

So the next morning, she didn’t bother
to get up at all. But she couldn’t resist
peeking, from behind a screen, as he made
his own breakfast. And then she had had
the shock of her life. For he had gotten
out the electric blender and was filling it
with orange juice, a raw egg and some
wheat germ from a can and mixing the
whole lot into a horrible mess.

“Oh, no!” she whispered, putting her
hands to her face. And then she realized
she’d never asked him what he ate for
breakfast and he’d eaten all her breakfast
and not complained.

Being perfect took all day, Carol soon
learned. She’d busied herself around the
apartment, dusting even where there was
no dust. Then she’d gone down to the
neighborhood market and introduced her-
self to the grocer and then the butcher,
giving her name, very proudly, as “Mrs.
Adams.” She must have stood in front of
the meat counter for almost an hour, she
remembered, not wanting to admit she

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didn’t know one cut from another and yet
wanting so much to get the right one.
Finally, she bought a lean cut of roast beef.
Then she hunted through the packets of
frozen vegetables until she’d found two
she thought Nick would like. And she also
bought some jello for a mold and a cake
mix.

Then, she’d gone home to devote the
whole afternoon to preparing just about
the best dinner she knew how. Nick,
she remembered, must have called almost
ten times that afternoon ■ . . just to tell
her how much he loved her. She was still
a little nervous about calling him, in case
he was busy.

She hadn’t told him that, when he called,
she was standing in a kitchen piled high
with dishes and pots and pans. She hadn’t

wanted him to know what a muddle she’d
gotten herself into trying to make the cake.
It should have been so simple. At least
that’s what the directions said. Even the
roast presented a problem and the peas
had burned. Finally, though, she peeked
in the icebox to find that the jello had set.
The finished cake, she had to admit,
didn’t look bad at all. And the roast looked
like a roast! So, about the time she ex-
pected Nick to arrive home, she ran into
the bedroom to get dressed- She’d made up
her mind that her husband would never
come home to find her a mess.

But, just as she’d decided what to wear,
she heard his key in the lock. Her hair was
still falling all over her face and her skirt
was covered with flour.

When he came in, he took her in his arms,
kissed her gently, and then, holding her at
arm’s length, whistled softly, “You look
wonderful. . . I have a beautiful wife, that’s
for sure.”

What! She couldn’t believe her ears.
She knew she looked a mess.

It was true, only a husband could love
you looking like that. When Nick had first
said it, she’d thought he was fooling. But
he wasn’t, because he kissed her behind
the ear and sighed, “Mmm. You smell good
too.”

“Garlic,” she laughed.

The dinner had turned out perfect. And
Nick was delighted. She’d set the table
with theii best pink cloth and the elegant
silver and dishes they’d been given as
wedding presents. And he’d said how lovely
everything looked, noticing even the
flowers.

She vowed it would always be like this,
until two days later . . .

That day, she happened to meet a girl-
friend while out shopping. They’d begun
talking, stopped in for coffee together, then
gone bargain hunting in a store that had

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just opened. Before she realized what had
happened, the day had flown by and it was
already six o’clock. She had rushed into
the nearest supermarket, bought a quick
TV dinner and a carton of ice cream and
arrived home just a few minutes before
Nick-

When he got in he seemed tired and, tak-
ing off his coat, had said, “Boy, what a day
I’ve had. The only thing that kept me
going was the thought of you . . . and
the wonderful dinner that would be wait-
ing for me. And am I hungry! You know
I’m a lucky guy. I’ve told everybody what
a great little cook I married.”

She didn’t know what to do. She just
began serving the TV dinner.

“I was out shopping and I met a girl-
friend. I guess I must have forgotten about
the time ... I am sorry,” she said quietly.

Nick looked up. “What do you mean?
This is exactly what I wanted.”

She could have hugged him. Instead, the
next day, she especially telephoned him
at the studio to ask him what he’d like
for dinner that night, apologizing for what
seemed to be the hundreth time — for the
night before.

“What would you like, Nick,” she’d
asked. “Name anything.”

For a moment there had been silence,
then he said, “How about a chicken TV
dinner. You know, I kind of like them . . .”

And there had been so many wonder-
ful things, too, that they’d shared during
their early wacky months of marriage.

Sometimes, Carol felt, she loved Nick so
much she could never show him how
much. They had so much happiness. And
then, when the doctor told her what she
had hoped might be true — that she was to
have a baby — she felt that it all couldn’t
be possible.

The first time she put on her maternity
clothes, Nick had laughed happily and
joked, “You look just like a kid playing
at dressing up.” And in a way she felt
that, too. She was only five feet tall and
she looked like a little girl who’d stuffed
herself with a pillow. But she was won-
derfully healthy, and if pregnancy dis-
rupted the household, it was only be-
cause Nick had food cravings.

And around that same time they’d gone
house-hunting because the apartment
they had wasn’t big enough for three
and she’d discovered a wonderful “kookie”
type of place sitting on a hillside. It was
round and made of attractive flagstone and
it had two bedrooms as well as a guest
room. There was a big kitchen, a dining
room, and an alcove off the master bedroom
to be turned into a nursery. The living
room was large and in the center was a
fireplace that reached to the ceiling, and
from anywhere in the place, you could
look through the glass roof and see the sky.

Then Nick came home one night to tell
her he’d sold his idea for a TV series and
on top of that Mercury had asked him to
record “Born a Rebel” and “Bull Run.”
“You’ve brought me luck,” he’d said, hug-
ging her tightly. “You know that . . .
everything good has happened to me since
I met you. And you’re the most precious.
I love you, Carol, very much.”

She wanted to tell him exactly how she
felt, but all she could say, shyly, was “Me
too.” Somehow, he seemed to understand
because he said, “I know.”

Nick had to work seven days a week
after the series started filming. She hardly
ever saw him, and she began to worry as
thousands of other new brides have, “If
he loved me, he’d come home — no matter
what.”

Then one night she couldn’t stand it
any longer. When Nick came home, she
didn’t meet him at the door and when he
finally found her, she asked quietly, “Nick,
why . . . why are you away so much? Is

sure

to get

your

m w

May

there that much to do? Is everything else

more important than me?” The words just
seemed to flood. She couldn’t stop them.

Nick didn’t answer. He just paced up
and down. “I . . he began, then stopped
and paced a little more. “It’s like this . .
he tried again. And stopped a second time.

“You don’t love me any more. Is that
what you’re trying to say?” Carol shouted.

“No, Carol. No!” he said, with anger in
his voice. “It’s not that at all.”

“Well, what is it?” she screamed.

He came over to where she sat on the
couch and sat down beside her. “Carol,” he
said. “I have to work hard . . . it’s for you.
It’s all for you, and our baby. So that I
can be successful and my family can have
everything. I know I’m out in the evenings
and away sometimes on weekends, but
believe me, it’s not because I don’t love
you. It’s just the opposite. Carol, I love
you more than anything else in this
world . . .”

She bent her head onto his shoulder. She
was so ashamed for feeling sorry for her-
self, she could only say over and over,
like a broken record, “I’m so sorry, so
sorry, Nick.”

They were learning all the time.

Gradually, Nick became more mellow
and Carol a little stronger. They
argued but she didn’t collapse into
tears and he didn’t clam up. She still
missed him and maybe he couldn’t call
her five times a day from the studio, but
he still called twice. And when he came
home late at night and more and more of
his weekends were crowded with publicity
tours and appearances, no matter how
busy he was, they still found time for being
together. Daily, their understanding grew.
They became more natural with each other
and felt more sure of their marriage, more
contented. They were growing sure of
each other’s love.

And then, one Friday night, Nick came
home to find a roast beef dinner waiting
for him. There was a pink cloth on the
table and candles lit and music playing and
all their best china and silver neatly ar-
ranged. Carol’s hair was combed back and
she had on her best black maternity skirt
and a frilly white lace top.

After the meal, Nick put a few logs on
the fire and Carol curled up on the sofa.
Nick sat beside her and they talked quiet-
ly. .. . About the nursery complete with
Mother Goose linoleum, a crib, and draw-
ers full of diapers and homemade booties
supplied by the two prospective grandmas.

They talked about names for the baby.
It was to be Reb if it was a boy and Linda
Lee if the baby was a girl.

After a while, Nick got up and went
into the kitchen- It was time for Carol’s
nightly bubble gum — her only craving —
and, as he handed it to her he said casually,
“Honey, I saw the funniest thing today. A
camel’s hair coat, size one. Can you think
how it would look!”

She laughed, knowing it would cost a
great deal.

“But you don’t believe in expensive
clothes for a child,” she chided.

“Oh, well,” Nick added quickly, “Of
course, the baby would have to wear it
at least four seasons!”

They’d been married nearly a year — it
had been a wacky, wonderful year — and
amazing, too, when they remembered that
not so long ago they’d been perfect stran-
gers. Now they were a man and a wife
who not only loved each other, but under-
stood and knew how to live together . . .
naturally and happily. “Who was it that
said the first year was the hardest? He
must have been crazy,” Nick said recently,
looking at Carol. The End

NICK STARS IN “THE REBEL,” SUN., ABC -TV,
9 P.M. EST. HE ALSO RECORDS FOR MERCURY.

JOAN COLLINS

Continued from page 59

is that you’re getting nowhere fast. You
run to parties and good times, dating mil-
lionaire actors and handsome princes — but
have they made you happy?”

She took a warm bath to relax and,
later, as she turned off the light, she
stretched back and prayed that sometime
this year some change would come, some
change for the better. And as she prayed,
she thought back over her life and what
it was she really wanted.

Did she want marriage? She was afraid,
worried that she might marry on the run
the way she did when she was seventeen,
only to have it end in misery. But years
had passed since then. Hadn’t she grown
up? Hadn’t she developed a sense of re-
sponsibility about life? Then what sort of
man was for her? She pondered these
questions over and over, tossing restlessly,
wishing she could fall into a deep sleep.

One August night, soon after, she ac-
cepted an invitation of her friends. Herb
and Barbara Viner, who had asked her to
join them for dinner at an intimate res-
taurant in Hollywood. Joan, arriving a
little early at the restaurant, waited in the
lobby. While standing there, she suddenly
sensed she was being stared at by some-
one. She looked around and finally her
eyes settled on a young man, sitting with
a lovely tall and suntanned girl opposite
.him.

Was she imagining things — or was he
looking at her?

He definitely was, she decided, a few
minutes later.

Embarrassed, she went to wait for Herb
and Barb at the doorway. When they

arrived she told them about the man. “I
have had the queerest feeling,” Joan said,
“of being stared at. Don’t look now but I
think it’s that young man over there. Isn’t
that awful? A man flirting with another
girl when he’s out with a date?”

Barb, looking over Joan’s shoulder, in-
terrupted her. “That’s Warren Beatty,”
she whispered. “You couldn’t mean him.
He’s Shirley MacLaine’s brother.”

They walked on toward their table, and
Joan forgot about him, not knowing, at the
time, that he was the man she would
some day want to marry.

She was to see him again just a few days
later. That Saturday, Joan’s good
friend, John Foreman, called, and sug-
gested they go to a party that evening at
Debbie Power Loew’s.

“But I don’t feel like dressing,” Joan
complained.

“Come on,” John coaxed. “It’ll do you
good. You don’t go out much any more,
and it’ll be fun. There’ll be lots of people
there and they’ll pick up your spirits.”

No sooner did she arrive at the crowded
party than she spotted Warren — with an-
other date. He didn’t say hello to her.

Dressed in a dark flannel suit, Warren
was sitting at the grand piano in the liv-
ing room, playing free and easy jazz that
blended softly with the babble of voices.
His date stood close by him.

All evening he and Joan didn’t acknowl-
edge each other. She waited for him to
nod, or smile, but he didn’t. And she real-
ized she felt hurt. Finally, as the party
began to break up, Joan invited a few of
the guests to her apartment for coffee.
Then someone suggested, “Why don’t you
ask Warren Beatty and his date? He seems
lonely. Just got into town a couple of
weeks ago.”

Joan, startled, yet trying to maintain

her composure, replied, “I really don’t
know Warren very well. But if you want
to ask him — and his girl — that’s fine with
me.”

“She’s not his girl,” the fellow explained.
“Only a blind date.”

He went over to the piano, spoke to
Warren and handed him a piece of paper
with Joan’s address and telephone number.

Back at Joan’s apartment, the crowd
played records, danced, ate and drank cof-
fee. By two o’clock when everyone had
left, Joan was alone again. She had hoped
Warren would come.

But he never did.

The next morning she got up early and
drove to the beach at Santa Monica. Re-
turning home, late that afternoon, she
dialed her telephone-answering service to
check if there were any messages left for
her.

Warren Beatty had called six times!

No sooner did she put down the re-
ceiver than the telephone rang.

“Hello,” Joan said.

“Joan?” A slow, drawling voice at the
other end of the line spoke. “This is . . .
Warren. Warren Beatty.”

“Hi,” Joan said. “I just got home from
the beach and found your messages.”

“Are you busy for dinner?”

She paused. She just didn’t know what
to say. He’d acted so strangely — right
from the first time in the restaurant.

Suddenly, she found herself agreeing to
meet him in fifteen minutes. Was it
curiosity?

She dressed more quickly than she’d ever
dressed in her life: a pastel rose
blouse, a burgundy skirt, a gold brace-
let and small gold hoop earrings.

He arrived and suggested they dine
at a little Mexican restaurant. She liked
the authority with which he suggested the

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place, not waiting for her to dilly-dally.

At first, it seemed difficult to talk. She
found herself staring into his blue eyes
that were mysterious and deep.

“Do you like Hollywood?” she ven-
tured.

She saw him swallow. “Uh-huh,” he re-
plied, non-committally, reaching over to
light her cigarette.

Finally, unable to hold back the ques-
tion any longer, she put down her fork,
looked into his eyes and asked him di-
rectly, “Warren, may I ask . . . why did
you call me today but didn’t speak to me
on Saturday?”

After a pause, longer than an eternity,
he explained, “I was very depressed on
Saturday and when they asked me to
come over to your apartment I didn’t want
you to see me in such a blue mood.”

She closed her eyes; somehow she be-
lieved what he said, although she couldn’t
understand why. Maybe it was the way
he looked straight at her when he spoke.
He didn’t seem like the same man who’d
stared at her in the restaurant.

He continued. “I ... I was so happy
tonight when you said yes, that you’d
meet me for dinner, that I went out and
childishly had an ice cream cone to cele-
brate! I’d been wanting to meet you since
I first came to Hollywood.”

Looking into his blue eyes, she suddenly
wanted to cry. But why?

Their conversation flowed on. They
found they had so much to talk about,
that they couldn’t stop. They discussed
books they liked, their favorite films, Cali-
fornia. It was hard to believe the two of
them could be sitting in this small, in-
consequential restaurant, enjoying each
other’s company so much. Many of the
men Joan had dated demanded constant
attention and flattery. And to them it was
imperative they be seen in the “right
places” with her, while she was expected
to wear French gowns and pose like a
movie queen for newspaper photographers.
Now, all of a sudden, she realized the deep
happiness of sitting across the table from
someone who seemed to like her just for
being herself.

She told him a great deal about her-
self: her childhood days in England, the
student years at the Royal Academy in
London. Her dad, a vaudeville booking
agent, had begged her not to go into
show business, but she loved it because
she grew up with it. How did she get her
first break? Warren wanted to know.

“Through my modeling,” she confessed.
“Some agents saw a photo of me and I
tested for the lead in ‘Lady Godiva Rides
Again,’ and was turned down. But I did
get a bit part.”

She listened intently to what Warren
told her about himself; his childhood in
Virginia where his dad was a college pro-
fessor. Warren laughed over how he and
his sister, Shirley, hassled over who would
have the car on weekends. He was crazy
about sports, won letters in football, bas-
ketball, track and baseball. Northwestern
U offered him a football scholarship, and
he accepted it for a year. Then he decided
to go on his own to New York to study
acting.

Sipping icewater and tea, they sat at
the table for hours. On the way home, he
asked her for a date for the following
night. And the night after that, he asked
for another date. And they began dating
every night, dining or taking cool rides, or
just sitting at her home talking.

“You know what?” Joan confided one
evening, “I’ve changed since I’ve met you.
I used to always go into large, well-known
restaurants. Now, I don’t care about such
things. Just so long as I’m with you. It’s
being with someone that brings happi-
ness— not being somewhere. And you

make me feel like a lady wherever we
are.”

True, he was gentlemanly, his family
had given him a love for manners. He
always lit her cigarettes, held a door
open for her, stood up the moment she
came into a room.

Then, one day, Warren was cast in the
Broadway play, “A Loss of Roses,” and
they found themselves separated. After
just a few days, Joan, unable to bear being
away from him, flew to New York. While
he rehearsed, they never went out. They
stayed home in his apartment while she
helped him memorize his lines, meeting
during the day just for quick meals to-
gether. She wanted him to be a success,
and she wanted to help him in the study
of his role.

In such a short time, it was hard to be-
lieve what had happened to her. She felt
as though she were another person; or
was it just that she never before had
allowed her natural self to emerge? Had
she kept her real self hidden from the
world, afraid everyone might taunt and
poke fun at her for not being a runabout —
what was expected of a movie star?

Now, she was hardly making any de-
mands. Instead, she was learning the
pleasure of giving, helping him to prove
to himself that he was a good actor, and
she waited patiently with him through all
the difficult weeks of rehearsal and then
waited to see what the critics would say.

The critics raved. She was happy. And a
week later, after Warren’s show opened
on Broadway, she refused to go to London
for the filming of “Sons and Lovers.”
Newspapers implied she wouldn’t go be-
cause she didn’t want to leave Warren.
Was it true?

That evening, as the newspapers carried
the story, she prepared to meet Warren
after the show. As she walked to the
theater, she alone knew why she had
turned down the role, and it was not for
the reason they had suggested. Much as
she loved Warren, much as she hated to
be away from him, she didn’t turn it
down because of that. She had turned
down the role because of a new confidence
in herself. A confidence Warren’s love had
given her. A confidence to only take
roles she really wanted. And live a life
which she herself really wished. Not one
just filled with outer glamor which now
seemed empty.

“Warren has given me strength,” Joan
said later. “But then all lovers give each
other strength, don’t they? And the more
we get to know each other, the greater our
strength becomes. Our plans? Marriage,
yes. But I don’t think we should rush
into it. If we take time now and get to
know each other well, then I think we can
face the ups and downs of marriage.
Already, for instance, there are people
who are casting little barbs at us. But I
don’t pay any attention to them. They
say Warren’s younger than I. He’s only
a year younger. Certainly, he’s trying to
get ahead, to find some security. He
doesn’t take me to smart places. He can’t
afford them. But all these things don’t
matter, somehow. Nothing matters when
you’re in love — except your deep-rooted
belief in each other. That is what’s en-
riching.

“We’re not officially engaged yet. But
that doesn’t matter either. I trust our
love.

“Like every woman, I needed love to
bring me back to life. Do you know that
line by the poet, Rilke? It sums up my
feelings about love and life.

“Love consists in this: two solitudes that
protect and touch, and greet each other.
That’s what I believe.” The End

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ELVIS PRESLEY

Continued, jrom page 45

working so we could keep going through
the rough times.

These are the symbols I keep before
me. I don’t forget those early days now
that I have so much. I don’t forget that
I’ve been lucky. Thousands live like we
used to live. I’m lucky that millions of
people all over the world wanted what I
had to offer — that I now have every ma-
terial thing I want.

I thank God for all that.

But there were those early days when all
we seemed to have was despair.

I don’t know if you knew my mom and
dad were both orphans. They married when
Mom was nineteen and Dad a year or
so older.

I was one of twins, born in the little
shack at Tupelo. My twin brother Aaron
died when he was just a few months old
and I was given the name Aaron after my
first name.

My brother’s death hit my parents hard,
but they say when one twin dies the other
grows up with all the qualities of the
other, too. I doubt that, but if I did I’m
lucky.

Life wasn’t so great in those days. Dad
was a house painter — a good one — but in
that small town where nobody had much
money, they hadn’t any to spare on peel-
ing walls or blistering paint.

My mother had to work in a dress fac-
tory so we could have enough to eat.

Dad, when he could, got truck-driving
jobs. We never actually starved, but we
came pretty close to it at times.

It may have been very tough, but I
didn’t know it then since I had no other
kind of life to compare it with.

I know that when I was four or five all
I looked forward to was Sundays when
we all went to sing at our church. We
were members of the Fundamentalist
Assembly of God.

I loved the music and sang as loud as
I could. We borrowed the style of our
psalm singing from that of the early Ne-
groes— a rolling, rhythmic style, with
everybody swaying in the church.

This was the only singing training I
ever had. I never had lessons.

Probably, this early revivalist type of
singing had an effect on my style today.
I don’t honestly know.

As I got older I used to sing solos, and
my ambition as a young teenager was to
be a quartette gospel singer.

I loved the old church filled with sun-
light and my mother and father singing
beside me. We forgot our problems.

Then, when I was fourteen, my parents
could forget them no longer. We decided
to go to a bigger town so Dad could get
more work.

We left the shack in Tupelo and headed
for the big town of Memphis in Tennessee,
where we had another two-room home on
Alabama Street.

Here, Dad found work. He got a fairly
good job in a paint factory, but still my
mother had to go out to work to keep us
going.

They sent me to the Memphis high
school and clothed me as well as any of
the other kids, although it cost them a lot.

After school, I worked nights as a movie
attendant. That brought in another $14 a
week.

Weekends, I mowed lawns with Negro
laborers at a half-dollar apiece on the
average — it depended on the size of the
lawn.

I was strong and liked working hard.
At school, I spent two years in the cadet

corps they ran there, but after the first
year I wasn’t doing as well as I hoped and
my interest dropped. After I graduated,

I went to work in a factory, getting up at
3 a.m. for my shift at the plant.

After that I drove a truck. I felt I was
growing into a man, and our finances, for
once, weren’t too bad.

Then came more trouble when I was
about eighteen. My father injured his I
back, slipping a disc. He came home in :
great pain one night. He went to the hos- 1
pital for about two weeks and had to lie
still all day. When he finally came home, .■
he couldn’t work for weeks.

This put a big strain on my mother who
had got a job at the hospital, a job she
didn’t leave for two years. She bathed
patients, made beds, scrubbed floors, and
worked harder than she’d ever done be-
fore.

Her health began to fail. But she kept
at it and came home every evening to cook
supper, do the housework and mend our
clothes.

I used to tell her, “Mom, you shouldn’t
have to work so hard.” And she would
smile and say, “I love you both so much.
I’d sooner work for you than anything in
this world.”

In the evenings, I tried to cheer them up
by playing tunes I’d made up on a guitar
my father had bought me for my birth-
day. It cost him eight dollars and that
meant he had to go without smokes for
weeks.

But I never realized our position was
getting serious until one night when I
came home. My father was sitting on his
bed with his head in his hands. I thought
he was thinking hard.

When I asked: “What’s up, Dad?” he
looked away but he had tears in his eyes.
I’d never seen my father cry. I didn’t
know a full-grown man could cry.

There had been times when he had been
strict with me, times when he may have
been too easy, but he was my father and
to see him like that made me scared inside.

As I stood there, it was as though some-
thing snapped inside of me. I was no
longer a boy. I was a man, watching an-
other man suffer. That made me grow up.
Looking back, I believe it even changed
my whole life.

I knew his injury was worse than he’d
told us. He’d tried to laugh it off.

He turned to me and said: “Look son,
it’s time you knew the truth. My back is
worse than I thought and there may be
long periods when I can’t work at all.

“We’re going to have a tough time pay-
ing all our bills.”

I didn’t know what to say when he went
on: “I never expected to be the greatest
man in the world, but I wanted to be a
good husband to your mother and a good
father to you.

“Now it seems we’re in for some real
hard times.”

When he finished talking, I went away
feeling helpless. I was eighteen. What
could I do? I did the first thing that came
to my mind. I got down on my knees and
prayed to God to show me some way to
help my parents. It was my turn to help
them now.

One day I was driving down the Mem-
phis main street when I remembered
it was Mom’s birthday soon. I thought I
could do something to cheer her up.

I was idling along when I saw a sign
which read: “Sun Records Inc. Memphis
Recording Services.” I had my guitar in
the truck so I stopped and went in.

The owner, Sam Phillips, and his secre
tary were sitting at a desk. They said it
would cost me four dollars to make a rec-
ord, so I paid and went into a booth.

I sang the first two songs I thought of —
“My Happiness” and “Heartache Begins —
and I remember feeling very silly in there

all on my own, singing only to myself.

When I came out, Sam Phillips said:
“You got a fair voice. I’ll call you some
day. We’ll try out a number or two.”

He called just one year later.

Well, we tried a few slow ballads for a
couple of hours, then, during a coffee
break, I tried to make a few pals laugh
by singing a fast rhythm and blues
number.

They got to clapping, then Mr. Phillips
suddenly yelled loud and bounded over.

“Boy, that’s great! That’s how you gotta
sing. Let it go. Sing up a storm.”

I made five more records for Sun Rec-
ords after that, all of which were played
on the local radio station.

Then came the day I was invited to
make a personal appearance.

It was in an outdoor theater in the town.
The main performers were opera stars.

When I went on, I made myself forget
me. I sang “That’s All Right Mama” and
gave it all I had.

Suddenly the teenagers at the back of
the audience started screaming.

I finished — and they screamed louder
and louder. I was scared. I didn’t under-
stand it.

But, when I knew they were screaming
for me, I felt something big and wonderful
had begun.

I slept badly that night. I had night-
mares full of screaming people, but they
weren’t frightening dreams because I
knew that those screams meant the end
of money worries for Mom and Dad.

The poverty we’d known all our lives
and had come to accept, was going to
end. For years my mother had ruined
her health slaving for me and for Dad
while he was out of work with an injured
back. Now my chance to help had arrived.

First, I was signed up by showman
Col. Tom Parker, one of the shrewdest
managers in the business. He got my con-
tract with the small Memphis record com-
pany taken up by RCA Victor.

My first record for them was “Heart-
break Hotel.” It hit the top and was my
first record to sell over a million.

For the first time in his life, Elvis Aaron
Presley and his parents had money to
spare. I went kind of mad.

I bought one Cadillac, then another. I
moved my folks from the two-room shack
on Alabama St., Memphis, to a $30,000
mansion, then to our $100,000 home just
outside the town.

I went on long tours. Everywhere, the
1 kids went crazy. Police at every town
were reinforced when I sang. I never
liked that kind of fuss, but there was little
1 I could do about it.

Church leaders said my style was im-
moral. I didn’t and still don’t see any
1 harm in my style. Soon the fuss died
down.

Then, in Wichita Falls, Texas, fans broke
every window in my car and kept the
broken glass. In San Diego girls covered
my car with their phone numbers written
i in lipstick. It was the same everywhere
we went.

One day, I drove my car into a filling
station.

Fans trapped my car. I couldn’t drive
away, so I just chatted, asking them to
■ let me go.

The garage man hit me on the back
of my head and said: “Move on, son.”

I got mad. I clipped him as he had
clipped me. A fight started, police broke
it up and he and I appeared in court. But
the charges of assault against me were
dismissed.

The next month, a nineteen-year-old
boy called Louis Balint came up and at-
tacked me. He said he was jealous be-
cause his wife always carried my photo in
her jacket. He was fined $8 for that. Later,

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he said someone connected with me had
told him to do it to get me publicity.

It’s possible someone did play a joke
on him, but nobody connected with me
told him to do it. That sort of publicity can
only do harm. We’ve never rigged any-
thing.

All the attacks being made on me upset
my mother. She went out less and less.

I told her the attacks would stop if I
lived properly. Now, of course, they have.

1 never thought my style “wicked.”
When I start to sing I don’t know what
happens to me. Maybe it’s the music, the
song, the crowds or something deep in me,
but to the rock ’n’ roll beat I just have to
move my hands, feet, knees, legs, head —
everything.

Because some young guy has his hair
done in my style, then commits a crime,
who gets the blame? Elvis Presley.

If the kids want to yell my numbers,
well, let them. Get young people in any
part of the world together in a group
and they won’t sit like statues.

Wicked? I don’t even smoke or drink. I
was terribly nervous before I did my first
TV show. I sang “Shake, Rattle and Roll”
and “Blue Suede Shoes” and, again, just
let go with the music. Again there were
attacks in the papers, but I felt I could
live them down. As the months went by,
it was like a dream. Every show I did
they screamed louder and louder.

Our years of poverty were over. I now
had a way to repay my mother and father
for the sacrifices they had made for me.

In this business, life goes so fast that
important things (like remembering your
parents) can slip by. I made it a point not
to let that happen.

When Col. Parker told me 20th Century-
Fox wanted me to co-star in a film with
Debra Paget and Richard Egan, I was
overwhelmed. They called the film “Love
Me Tender,” and wrote in three songs for
me.

Looking back, I don’t think it was the
right part for me. A whole lot of people
wrote saying they were disappointed.

I was happier with “Loving You.” Many
critics said I was a good actor — that was
praise I wanted.

' Then I got my draft notice for the Army.

I was stationed for twenty-two weeks’
basic training at Fort Hood, Texas, and
I did my fifteen-mile forced marches with
a sixty-five pound pack on my back, same
as the other guys.

The person who felt it the most, when
I was called, was the person who gets
hurt first in every happy family — my
mother. Her health had been failing.

She came to see me but on the way
home, she had a bad heart attack in the
train.

She was taken to the hospital where she
spoke to me by phone every day when I
came off duty. All I wanted to do then
was to see her. I went in for emergency
leave and got it.

My father met me and took me to the
hospital. I remember his face was white
and strained, and when he smiled I knew
he didn’t feel like smiling.

He just said, “She keeps asking to see
you, Son.”

I went in to see her. I’d never seen her
look so bad, but she was happy. She held
my hand and we talked for as long as
the doctors would let us.

I kissed my mother goodnight and prom-
ised to return first thing next day. Then
I went to our home. I didn’t sleep.

At 3 a. m. the phone rang. I knew some-
thing had happened and for a while I tried
to pretend it wasn’t ringing. But I knew
who it was.

When I picked it up, my father said:
“Son, she’s gone . . . she’s gone.”

I pulled on some clothes and raced to
the hospital. I can’t talk about this. I

can’t describe the feeling of desolation —
she had died when we were going to have
so much, after so little.

She was forty-two. She had lived just
long enough to know her years of sacrifice
had not been in vain.

But all I wanted was for her to be alive,
alive to share all the good things that
were coming . . . the things she deserved.

Then I resolved I’d never let my father
— nor his mother who lived with us — be
alone.

As long as they wanted me, I’d be there.

I knew I would soon be shipped to Ger-
many. We decided to close up our Mem-
phis home and my father and grandmother
joined me in Germany, where I was sta-
tioned. I wasn’t going to have them mop-
ing, alone, without me at home.

I still take advice from Dad. I was a
normal teenager— often thought my
folks were preventing me from having
fun. But I passed that stage pretty quickly.

I soon found out that, because they have
experienced the stage of life you are
reaching, they know the way you think.

I think Dad got a bit bored with life
out here in Germany when I wasn’t with
him.

But I was just like any other private in
the Army. It’s the only way to be. The
boys thought Private Presley E. ASN
53310761 would stay by himself, not have
anything to do with anyone, and not be
friendly.

But I was never stand-offish. I like peo-
ple and I don’t like to be alone.

I didn’t consider myself a special soldier.
If any one man says the Army’s wrong
and he’s right, he’s in for a bad time.

I’ve been asked a lot about girls. Asked
if I want to get married. Sure I do . . .
one day and when I meet the right one.

I don’t mind whether she’s a redhead,
blonde or brunette as long as she’s truly
feminine. I like a girl to look up to me.
But I guess most guys feel this way.

I’ll be leaving the Army soon. I’ll be
coming home. But before I do, I wanted
you to read my story; I wanted you to
understand why I’ve changed. I think
being in the Army, going new places and
meeting new people, has helped me to
grow. And it’s also given me a chance to
get a new perspective on myself. Now,
looking back over the past few years, I
see how much I’ve grown since that day
I saw my father cry. Like I prayed that
day, I feel I want to go down on my knees
and pray again . . . that people back home
will still want to hear me. Because I
want to continue giving pleasure to them
the way I was finally able to give to my
own family. I hope that folks won’t think
I’ve changed too much, that they’ll see
that, no matter what new experiences I’ve
had, basically I’m still the same person.
And I do hope that folks haven’t forgotten
me. I haven’t forgotten them. — ELVIS

WATCH FOR EL IN “C.I. BLUES” FOR PAR. BE
SURE TO CATCH HIS OLD FILMS WHICH ARE BE-
ING RE-RELEASED. HE SINGS ON RCA VICTOR.

National Society for
Crippled Children and Adults
2023 W. Ogden Ave.
Chicago 12, 111.

CARY GRANT

Continued from, page 53

how busy these producer-actors are and
so, at best, I hoped for an interview come
next May Day.

Nothing of the sort happened, though.
Cary came right on the teleohone when
he heard my name and literally surprised
me into idiotic mutterings. “Hello, Sara
dear,” he greeted me.

“How are you?” I asked him. I also told
him the idea for the story.

“Come and see me,” he said.

Now, if all this seems routine and nor-
mal for Hollywood, it isn’t. In truth, there
is no other star of Cary Grant’s magnitude
—and that’s way out there, daddy-o — who
can be reached by telephone and by per-
sonal contact, as easily, as cozily as Cary
By those who know him, I mean. And I’ve
known Cary for, oh, at least 25 good years.

So we sat in his dressing room talking,
when Cary suddenly revealed his hopes.
“I want children,” he confessed. “I want
children, a home, a wife and fatherhood to
fulfill my life.”

Perhaps those weren’t his exact words,
but almost. And, as I sat there, looking at
this friend I so greatly admire, I realized
this man was starving — literally starving —
for the things other men, in less glamorous
professions, take for granted. For chi'dren
who will love him and who will fill his
life to overflowing.

And bear in mind, Cary is far from
the off- with -the -old -love -on -with- the-
new type.

He was devastated when actress Virginia
Cherrill called a halt to their marriage of
less than two years, and later moved on to
become the Countess of Jersey.

He poured out his disappointments to
close friends when Barbara Hutton walked
out to become a baroness and to learn, too
late, that Cary was the best husband she
ever had and the only one who wanted
nothing from her. Cary, himself, was earn-
ing a fabulous salary, for those times, and
wanted only to give.

He still hasn’t completely let go of Betsy
Drake, even though the formal announce-
ment of their separation is now history. In
fact, it was Betsy who met Cary at the air-
port when he returned from that trip to
New York.

But, you see, each of Cary’s three wives
filled a need in his life whether he realized
it or not. Virginia Cherrill gave him his
first home after years of roaming an in-
secure world as a bachelor and struggling
performer. He emerged from the Barbara
Hutton marriage a polished man of the
world and also one well aware of the pit-
falls of an idle, glittering existence. And
Betsy Drake came into Cary’s life during
his most important period — the transitional
era. He had begun, by this time, to seek,
to probe, to search within himself, to find
out about himself. And such a thorough,
honest probing can be darn painful. And
how many people do you know in this
world, who take time to find themselves?
Especially successful and famous people
such as Cary Grant? Very few, eh?

When it was all over, Cary made a dis-
covery. He had come full circle in his life
and now finds himself at familiar cross-
roads where he stands as lonely as the
man he played in that midwest cornfield
in the movie, “North By Northwest.” A
man just waiting. Just waiting for his life
to be fulfilled by the one right woman.

From all signs and omens, I personally
believe the girl he’ll choose will be as
young as springtime, as" delightfully sur-
prising as violets in February and as
home-loving, family-raising as any man

could want. But maybe I’m just wishing
on a star for my very old friend.

He adored Betsy. Pride in her intelli-
gence fairly oozed from him. So who’s to
say what brought about their separation a
year or two later? Personally, I think it
was merely the simple process of evolu-
tion. They emerged from their studies and
pursuits of hypnotism, Yoga and philoso-
phy, only to find themselves two separate
individuals, heading toward opposite poles.

Betsy’s life is one of books, of painting,
of study, of writing. I’m told she a' one
wrote the film “Houseboat” in which Cary
and Sophia Loren starred. One day, with
great pride Cary read me a paragraph or
two from a letter Betsy had written him
from London. It was filled with warmth
and beauty. “Why, these two are the deep-
est of friends,” I remember thinking at the
time.

I believe her shattering experience on
the shipwrecked Andrea Doria was a
nightmare that stripped them both of any
outer pretenses, revealing themselves to
each other as two people destined only for
a lifelong friendship. For, just as after
that Betsy’s life took a turn to the crea-
tive, Cary’s took a sudden swerve to the
domestic. Toward the craving for home
and children. Toward that lonely cross-
road where he stands today. Waiting.

I can't remember the exact year I first
met Cary — sometime in the early thir-
ties— but I remember the place. It was
in the old publicity building on the Para-
mount lot. Three tall young men were
standing talking together, at the end of the
hallway, and a publicity girl, who was
with me, guided me in their direction.

“I want you to meet these newcomers
who will certainly become stars,” she said,
introducing me to all three, one of whom
was Cary. And this is just awful, but I
can’t remember who the other two were.

But I remember Cary well. Tall, dark,
handsome, with a voice a little like a set
of chipped dishes, Spode china of course,
and I noticed that he approached every-
one sideways, like a lateral wave along the
shore. He still does in movies, if you’ll no-
tice. It’s part of his charm, I think.

I was amused when he was given the
role of the Mock Turtle — the character,
not the soup — in “Alice in Wonderland.”
And I was intrigued when he became the
young man of Mae West’s invitation —
“Come up and see me sometime.”

It was after Cary created a sensation
in such comedies as “The Awful Truth,”
“Bringing Up Baby” and “The Philadel-
phia Story,” that I ran into him again.
“Look,” he said to me, “bring Sally (my
teenage daughter) over to the set and
we’ll have a laugh and a cup of coffee
later.” He was making a picture, with
Ginger Rogers at the time on the RKO
lot, and frankly, I was a bit skeptical.
Ginger, in those days, was far from
friendly toward any visitor— press or oth-
erwise.

Anyway, Cary had seen to our passes
and a publicist was waiting at the gate to
escort us to the set. Cary, a delightful and
eager host, came forward immediately and
found us comfortable seats. But, during a
scene rehearsal just a few minutes later,
orders came for us to leave the set imme-
diately. Miss Rogers, I was assured, appre-
ciated no visitors. In vain, I protested,
explaining I was a member of the press
and also a personal guest of Mr. Grant’s. It
was no go. “Out” was the word from Miss
Rogers and so, in order not to create a
commotion, my daughter and I rose
qu;etly and left the studio.

Cary caught up with us at the publicity
department. He’d run every step of the
way, in makeup and out of breath, just to
apologize. There was nothing to be said,

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of course, but I think the incident per-
haps more firmly established our friend-
ship. He was such a gentleman — so sincere
in his ways.

A few years later, at a party at the
Jules Steins’ (he’s head of MCA so it was
a star-studded affair), Cary, the late John
Garfield and I found ourselves a three-
some on the patio. For some reason, I’ll
never understand, I suddenly started tell-
ing a funny story that I realize now, in
thinking back, wasn’t terribly funny at
all, but nevertheless simply fractured
Cary. I remember him wiping away the
tears of laughter, and I thought to myself
— this person wants so very much to laugh,
to enjoy himself.

In each instance, you see, I was learn-
ing more and more about him. His kind-
ness, his thoughtfulness, his eagerness for
enjoyment, all helping to make me un-
derstand his present longing.

He was moving right along in the world
of glitter and gold by then, already a firm
friend of the fabulously wealthy Howard
Hughes of the New York and Hollywood
smart set. He’d progressed from what I
believe to be the best light comedies ever
made, bar none, to such compelling dramas
as “Suspicion,” “None But the Lonely
Heart” and “Notorious." Pictures that, for
some reason, won everyone Academy
Award nominations but the star himself.
The man who only contributed to their
greatness.

He was deeply immersed in romances,
from time to time, and oddly enough the
girls he fell in love with were mostly of a
type. Blond beauties. And heavens above,
how they fell for Grant! And no wonder.
For all his fame and good looks and
charm, there was still something basic
about him that was terribly endearing, and
yet he couldn’t seem to hold onto mar-
riage.

I recall the preview of his picture, “The
Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer” at the
Academy Theater, when Cary came in un-
expectedly and requested the person in
the seat next to me to move over. “I want
to sit near Sara,” he explained.

They tell me it was a good movie. I
wouldn’t know. I was so fascinated with
Cary’s almost naive enjoyment of the
proceedings, that I couldn’t concentrate on
the movie. “There’s a very funny potato
sack race scene coming up now,” he’d tell
me, always drawing attention to other
players in the story while I thought to
myself, “And this is the very sophisticated
Mr. Grant.”

But let me hasten to add there is that
side of him, too. The sophisticate — I ran
head-on into it one day when he was
making “Kiss Them for Me” and I’d gone
out to his dressing room for coffee. Only
Cary took Sanka with vitamin A — or was
it C — pills.

Anyway, Suzy Parker was in the throes
of this, her first movie, and not doing too
well. So, in typical Grant fashion, Cary
had invited her in for a chat. A chat? It
was a verbal onslaught with Cary sud-
denly feeling the need to “explain” Suzy.
“She’s terribly bright and misinformed,”
he said by way of introduction. “But she
does know a lot about penguins. She really
does.”

I slowly digested this highly fascinat-
ing piece of information while Suzy, who
never paused for a breath, went right on
talking through Cary’s conversation.

“She has a facade like Grace,” Cary ob-
served, more to himself than me, but I
knew, of course, he referred to his close
friend Grace Kelly, Princess of Monaco.
“But,” he continued, “she’s innately honest,
like Ingrid.” All the while, Suzy talked on.
“But I think — •” Cary continued.

Suddenly, it was as if Hades had broken
loose. With his robe over his costume,

Cary was at the door, belaboring a dumb-
struck set worker who had dropped ;
chewing-gun wrapper outside Cary’;
dressing room door.

“Pick it up,” he ordered. “I can’t stanc
litter.”

“This happen often?” I asked, when or-
der had once more been restored.

“All the time,” he admitted. “I even leai
out car windows to yell at people wh<
throw things on the street. Just can’t stan<
it.”

In view of later developments, I nevei
quite got up the nerve to ask Cary wha
he thought of Suzy’s “innate honesty” now
Suzy, who had, at that time, denied tht
existence of a husband.

Oh well, it’s so much Sanka under tht
bridge as far as Cary’s concerned, I’n
sure.

At the time of this get-together,
learned that Betsy was making a film ii
London and Cary, who had just finishec
“An Affair to Remember,” with Deboral
Kerr, had bought his wife a gift. Deborah
who was leaving for London shortly, hat
agreed to take it with her. “Do you thinl
this note is all right?” Cary asked, hand-
ing me the message he’d written Deborah

The note was a charming, warm gesturi
to a warm and charming friend.

I think, too, Cary falls a little in lovi
with each of his leading ladies. Which i
natural. In each, he finds something to ad
mire. In a few, he finds and gives stauncl
loyalty.

It could be my imagination, of course
but with Cary I sense, lately, a lettinj
down of the bars. He’s taken to minglinj
more with Hollywood friends. Not just th<
inner circles of Hollywood but with thi
workers, the doers, the earthier. As if h<
were slowly but surely coming horn'
again. Which, I think, is somehow a goo<
omen.

It’s odd, too, but in Cary people have ;
way of seeing the reflection of their owi
ideas. Right now, I’m willing to bet then
are a dozen different Grants in existence
Each, the product of another’s creation.

The adoration and hero-worship lav
ished on Grant by Tony Curtis is, o
course, well known. His walk, his talk, hi,
clothes are, to Tony, the living end. In facl
it was Cary’s accent Tony affected throug]
part of his sensational movie “Some Lik-
It Hot.”

Many men regard Cary as a model oj
fashion with impeccable taste in clothes
A young actor friend once regaled me fo
hours about a waistcoat and scarf Car
wore in “To Catch a Thief.” “What waist
coat and what scarf was that?” I final!
asked, to the lad’s complete and utter dis
gust.

All I know about him and the clothes
for which he is famous, is that in his whit
tie and tails — as he steps out onto th
stage of the Academy Awards Theater — h
outshines every male within miles.

I see Cary in an altogether light. Incon
gruous as it seems, I find him the friem
who, above all others, I can go to with
spiritual problem and find complete un
derstanding. I can tell him what is in m.
heart, and he responds. I can confes
hopes, and receive encouragement.

In return, I clearly understand hi
yearning to have a whole and complet
life in a home, in a settled happy marriag
and above all, in parenthood. And mayS
it’s just a hopeful hunch, but somehow
feel these coveted attributes are jus
around the corner for Cary Grant. Per
haps, for all we might know, in the yea
1960.

And wouldn’t that be a happy day fo
all who wish him well? Eh? — Best, Sar

BE SURE TO WATCH FOR CARY IN THE GRAS
IS greener” for universal-internationai

JLU

Sar

RAS

NAI

EDD BYRNES

Continued from page 31

lifted the hood that covered the engine.
“I didn’t think he was so tall,” Deb said
and looked down at her bare feet and
cried, “Oh, I look so awful.”

“Me, too,” Susie moaned, “my hair’s a
mess,” and she tried to smooth it down
with her fingers.

As Edd reached for a tool, he saw them
and smiled.

“Maybe he needs help,” Bonnie whis-
pered. “Should we ask?”

Edd looked up as they joined him. “It’s
not too serious,” he said. “I’ll have it
fixed in a few minutes.”

They stood in a circle and watched.
Edd told them he had just moved into a
new house and he didn’t have much furni-
ture yet. When they asked him where he
lived, they discovered that it wasn’t far
from where Debbie and Bonnie lived on
Bowmont Drive. “I guess that makes us
neighbors, doesn’t it?” Edd said. And
when he smiled, Bonnie noticed it was a
soft, shy smile. He looked just like he
did on TV.

“Do you talk ‘kookie’?” Susie asked.
!|“Nope,” Edd answered, “I don’t go in for
“it too much except on the program.” Then
he laughed. “I bet you don’t know what
?the skizziest’ means?” Everyone shook
their heads no. “ ‘Skizziest’ means more
ithan ‘ginchiest.’ ”

I Susie poked Deb. “Ask him,” she coaxed.
‘Go ahead, ask him.”

I “Ask me what?” Edd grinned. Both
Susie and Bonnie blushed. Finally, Bonnie
“said, “Do you know Sandra Dee? She’s
our favorite actress.” “Well, to tell you
ijthe real truth,” Edd paused — then added,
‘she’s the skizziest!”

When the scooter was fixed, he asked:
‘Would you like a lift home? I’ve never
jridden four on a scooter before, but I’m
isure we could do it.”

Since Susie was tallest, Edd suggested
ihe take the rear seat. Debbie was next
tallest so she sat behind Edd and held
into his shoulders real tight. “His shirt’s the
same blue as his eyes,” she whispered to
Susie while Edd was helping Bonnie onto
ler seat in front. Finally, they were all
set and Edd called: “Hold tight, everyone,
fere we go.” And they started up the
oad, slowly at first. “Boy, oh, boy,” Susie
whispered to Deb, “wait ’til we tell the
kids who gave us a ride home.” And she
|iind Debbie crossed their fingers and made
i wish. They wished that somebody on
he block would see them drive up be-
| :ause, after all, who would ever believe it!

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Continued, from page 34

The lovely young dark-haired woman,
coming down the staircase into one of Las
Vegas’ smartest gambling rooms, seemed
to pause, just for a second, as she heard
the words, spoken by someone at the ta-
bles. But she did not stop. She walked
right on . . seeming unusually thought-
ful.

“Wonder what she’s thinking,” remarked
a bystander as she passed. “Her husband
just lost $100,000 . . .”

“I’m not surprised,” his companion said.
“He’s been down here four or five hours
already. And last night longer. Losing all
the time. Wish I had that kind of money
to throw away.”

“Oh, he’ll pay for it. I hear she’s not
crazy about his gambling. There’ll be
plenty of trouble in paradise.”

“Trouble in paradise?” his companion
repeated, then laughed. “You mean trou-
ble in a pair-of-dice, don’t you?”

“Maybe I do,” he laughed, then added,
“But maybe that’s the price. Nothing’s
free,” he said, thoughtfully.

Even if the woman had overheard part
of their conversation she evidently wasn’t
going to let them know, for she walked on
past and into the room with her head erect
and staring straight forward.

The woman was Liz Taylor.

Gambling seems the one thing in the
world Liz Taylor has never been able to
conquer; the one thing with which she has
never been able to compete. It was a cause
of the breakup of her first marriage. Is it
now creeping in to cause trouble in her
fourth?

Men seem to leave Liz for a gambling
table.

Nicky Hilton did on their honeymoon. A
young teenage bride at the time, Liz was
left alone in hotel bedrooms in the South
of France while he went off to casino after
casino to gamble through the night. For
months she had planned and dreamed that
her honeymoon would be the most roman-
tic any girl could ever have, picturing
them dancing together in the moonlight,
dining at intimate, candle-lit restaurants
by the Mediterranean . . . yet they were
but dreams. For in reality she spent her
honeymoon nights alone, pacing her room,
watching other couples from her window,
wondering desperately what had gone
wrong. It left a deep wound.

In Las Vegas, it is reported Eddie gam-
bles long. She sits alone and waits. It is
said she cannot plead, as Debbie once did,
“Eddie, you lost enough last night to put
our children through college. It’s got to
stop. It’s got to.” For that was Debbie.
Liz won him, surely, by being something
very different. But what must she be to
keep him?

If sometimes she wants to cry, she must
have to cry alone.

Yet, if a wife worries about her hus-
band’s gambling, how must she feel if
she is partly responsible for the loss of
his success?

Any woman likes to see her husband a
success, to feel that she’s part of the rea-
son for his success. Yet right from the
start, Liz has not truly been able to enjoy
this with Eddie. When they first an-
nounced their wedding plans, early last
year, Eddie, at the same time, was dropped
by the sponsor of his TV program. And
there were rumors people only came to see
him at his Las Vegas show just to watch
Liz in the audience.

It must have been a difficult day, that
day he broke the news to her about the
sponsor. Maybe it was partly to get away

from this sting that they decided defi-
nitely to go to Europe the very minute
they were man and wife? Perhaps Europe
would be kinder.

But was it?

Eddie's reported “appearances” while
Liz worked in England on “Suddenly Last
Summer” dwindled to a mere handful of
TV appearances and a few recording ses-
sions. One morning, after a TV show Eddie
had done, they had all the papers brought
into the dining room in the English castle
they’d rented. They divided the stack and
flipped quickly to the TV pages. Finally
when she had let the last paper drop to the
floor, Liz looked wordlessly across the
table at Eddie. It must have been difficult
to know what to say. The reviews had
been bad.

There must have been that same help-
less feeling, that same struggle to find the
right words that summer when Liz would
come home, tired and weary after a hectic
day at the studio, to find Eddie waiting for
her. knowing he was not working, know-
ing that he had spent the day just passing
the time by playing with her three chil
dren on the wide lawns in front of their
country home or in one of the large re
ception rooms inside the house.

It is not easy for a wife to enjoy ;
flourishing career while her husband stays
at home. It’s hard to squelch her own little
triumphs so that comparisons don’t come
up. For the husband, it’s even ha-der not
to feel a loss of pride.

Some skeptics are quick to point to
“Tammy,” Debbie’s hit record, which was
supposed to have caused Eddie, who hadn’
had a hit in a year, some hard kidding
And others say this is why Liz worked so
hard to help Eddie make his Waldorf
opening a success. Others say it is all part
of Liz’ desire to quit acting and depend
upon her husband for her future.

Back in New York, it was reported that
Liz pleaded with her studio for a part for
Eddie in “Butterfield 8.”

And one evening, soon after, a reporter
visiting them in their suite at the Waldorf,
and remarking about the film, was told by
Eddie, “I’m going to play a piano player
named Eddie. I never acted before but I’m
in the hands of a good director . . . my
wife.” Liz was starring in the picture.

Children pay a price, too.

For Liz, her children must concern
her too. Three little children who
rarely smile in public today, and who will
soon be old enough to read the papers.

The chauffeur who served Eddie and Liz
while they were in England got to knov,
those children well. Got to know how tc
penetrate their shyness. And one of the
strongest memories he has is of the eve-
ning when the boys’ real father, Michae
Wilding, came to dinner with his preseni
wife, Susan.

“It was one of the most strained eve-
nings I have ever witnessed,” the chauf
feur remarked, telling about it.

All through dinner Eddie and Mike ex-;!
changed only the vaguest of pleasantries
Liz and Susan eyed each other cautiously
And when they went into the living room
the atmosphere became decidedly uncom-
fortable.

For it was time for the boys to b<
brought in to say hello to their father
Downstairs they ran, in their pajamas, and
when they reached the room, they ad-
vanced solemnly and seriously towarc
their father. They shook hands shyly, stooc
around awkwardly until Liz took the ini
tiative by calling “off to bed.”

She is not insensitive to her children
not Liz. She must know how a child feel
for she is even concerned about those tha
are not her own . . .

On another day in England, when sh<
was leaving the home to take Liza am

i Let’s talk frankly about

m internal
cleanliness

ie boys loi a day on the river, near where
ley lived, she noticed the housekeeper’s
aughter, Sarah, playing in the garden,
atching wistfully as they got in the car.
Suddenly, she leaned out of the window
ad called, “Would you like to come with
ls? Go and ask your Mommy if you may.”
Friends have rumored that her recent
[ness might have been caused by emo-
onal upset. But it is impossible to tell.
11 that is known is that she fought hard
i be well enough to be at Eddie’s New
ork night-club opening. Now that he
■emed finally to be having his own tri-
mph, she wanted to be at his side to
aare it with him.

During the weeks of Eddie’s rehearsal,
ie stayed in their hotel room alone. She’d
ways liked New York, she’d always had
> many friends there. But this time it was
ifferent. Now, she began to feel the sting
jf being back where people still hadn’t
irgotten Acquaintances of Liz who used
l, be in the habit of calling, just to say
ello, didn’t. She waited in that hotel
>om, alone, knowing the heartache of a
■lephone that rang only for business and
ever for a friendly hello or invitation
Immediately after Eddie’s opening, she
as rushed to Columbia Presbyterian
Jiedical center. Once again, she was ill
he sparely furnished hospital room was
iimiliar; it seemed like so many other
rspital rooms she had been ill in so many
mes before She was allowed no tele-
rone calls, no visitors, except Eddie — all
ie treatment of a patient who is danger-
bsly ill. For weeks, she fought an attack
double pneumonia.

Other times, when she’d been ill, the
rone had rung constantly with anxious
iiestions about her and the room had
sen filled with flowers from her friends,
lit not this time, even after she was bet-
r, when calls and visitors were allowed.
Liz is no exception as an actress. Atten-
jan, love, loyalty from her fans are im-
brtant. Liz knows that she has lost both
ns and friends and that her marriage to
ddie caused the break in many friend -
lips.

“1 understood how they felt,” Liz told a
■porter. “They were afraid to get in the
iddle. Public opinion was very strong
id it was not popular to be on our side.
Key were not directly unfriendly — they
1st backed away. To back away is just
ypocritical and I don’t consider those
nd of people friends.”

It is hard to be happy when you have
st the respect of those close to you.

Many people, close to Liz since her
iildhood, maintain she never feels that
lople can love her for herself. “She feels,
n sure,” said one acquaintance, “that she
■ loved only for the way she looks.” A
lightening thing for a woman. For we all
:t old.

Can a wife really live this way and en-
y her marriage? Surely she must won-
?r if she did the right thing, if she is
tally making him happy.

At least she must want to stay beautiful
r him.

And it was true when she gained so
uch weight, around the time of their
edding, people said Liz was losing her
oks. Concerned about this, she began to
et, perhaps to wonder, also, if Eddie
ight look across the breakfast table one
orning and wonder, “Was it worth it?”

A few months later she completely re-
yled her hair in an urchin bob.

Worries . . . problems . . . fears?

Maybe it is all just what the man in the
imbling room at Las Vegas said, “You’ve
)t to pay for everything. Nothing’s free.”

—CHARLOTTE DINTER

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WISE GUY

Continued, from page 49

knew him — a bad egg in the neighborhood
just out of a correction school. But he also
knew the code of that neighborhood. So
he picked up the weapon, took it inside
and hid it under the stair well. Then he
climbed the four flights up to his flat and
slipped quietly into his room — with a sick
foreboding of trouble.

Sure enough, his big sister, Nina, soon
whistled him out of his room. Two plain-
clothes cops were standing beside his
mother in the living room. “Okay, son,”
one demanded, “let’s have the knife.”

“I got no knife.”

The man stepped threateningly toward
him. Bobby’s mother held up her hand.
“Don’t go near my son. I’ll handle this.
Bobby . . . where is it?” she asked.

“It’s downstairs. I’ll get it.” He couldn’t
lie to her. Anyway, they were bound to
find it sooner or later.

Later, they found out he’d been framed
in the stabbing and let him go. But each
time a thing like that happened, a cloud
he hated and feared seemed to settle lower
over Bobby Cassatto’s head. Each time the
meanness, ignorance, grinding poverty,
tension and trouble of the slums he lived
in grew and threatened to engulf him.
Each time he told his mother, “I’ve got to
get out of here, somehow, some way. I’ve
got to get you out, too.” Sometimes, al-
though young in years, he already
sounded like a man.

And each time she nodded confidently.
“You will.”

At that point, the odds seemed hope-
lessly long against him: he was sickly,
homely, dirt poor and had no father. But
Bobby Cassatto finally got out — way out.
Today he’s Bobby Darin, the hottest new
personality in show business.

Bobby has had six hit records in a row.
Right now he’s booked tight in the na-
tion’s top clubs until August. Recently, he
signed a million-dollar contract with Par-
amount to act in pictures. And curiously,
his biggest boost to all this was a song he
recorded about a slasher from the same
sort of slum jungle that Bobby fled. “Mack
the Knife” was written before Bobby
Darin was born, but no one has ever sung
it quite like him.

When he belts out “Mack the Knife,” or
anything else, and wherever he goes, Bob-
by goes all out. As a result, some people
tab Bobby a cocky, egotistical wise guy.
“He comes on too strong,” they criticize.
“He’s always too eager, too brash, too
much drive.”

Recently a Hollywood columnist took
him apart. “Bobby Darin looked at his
clippings,” he axed, “and said, ‘If I’m this
good now — what will I be when I’m Sina-
tra’s age?’ ”

Bobby didn’t say that. What he said,
anxiously, was, “The way they write about
me now scares me. How can I keep it up
like Sinatra does? What will they be writ-
ing about me when I’m his age?”

That’s a very different thing, and back
of it lies the specter that still haunts
Bobby — the specter of poverty in the
slums. He escapes it only by driving him-
self desperately. He’s still riding on that
drive. He doesn’t dare let up. Because
what he pulled out of is too close behind
him.

Today, Bobby owns an array of suits,
shoes, socks, shirts and ties. His laundry
bill averages $50 a week. But there was a
time when he had just one pair of frayed
pants to his name and couldn’t afford to
keep them cleaned. Only too recently he

could claim nothing more valuable thai
the clothes on his back, a toothbrush, ;
razor and the little wooden cross he go
as an altar boy.

Tragedy struck Bobby Darin and hi
mother, Polly, even before he was borr
twenty-four years ago this May 14, in Ne\
York’s drab Harlem district. Right afte
conceiving his son, Bobby’s dad, Sam Cas
satto, died of pneumonia — and Sam hai
been everything to Polly. For him she ha<
renounced a comfortable world of wealtl
and social position. Polly never regrettei
her choice, but the struggle was hard. A
Sam scratched out a bare living as cobble
and cabinet maker, Polly bore him fou
children. The eldest, Nina, was almos
grown when Bobby arrived. Three other
in between had died.

Depleted, sick and late in life for chili
bearing, Polly Cassatto rallied her frai
strength after the shock of Sam’s death t<
survive a precarious pregnancy and birtl
“Because,” Bobby believes, “to her, Dai
was coming back through me. She was ;
one-man woman — and I became that on
man. She lived to make something gooi
out of me. And I knew I had to succeed i
just for her sake alone.” From the start, i
was Bobby and his mom, together agains
the world, a hostile world.

An undertaking shark had gobbled al
Sam’s meager insurance in a needless!
expensive funeral. For a while, Polly triei
to work, but anemia, varicose veins am
arthritis kept her too often in bed. Finallj
she went on Home Relief to survive. Nin
quit school and took a job. The Cassatto
moved to a dark “railroad flat” in th
teeming Bronx, almost under the shadov
of the Triborough Bridge. And, for a Ion;
time, little Bobby lived under a mor
sombre shadow — death.

Right after he was born, he shrivelei
up like a raisin. “Probably,” Bobby Dari)
cracks, “from the fresh air.” Bobby’
handy with quips, like that, but most hav
a bite. At any rate, he was so weak tha
all he could keep down was goat’s mill
imported from Belgium, which Poll
sometimes skipped her own meals to buj
Still, when she wheeled him out on th
sidewalk for some sun, people would pee
down at the wizened face — all burnin
black eyes, it seemed, in a patch of blu
skin — and shake their heads.

“That kid’s gonna die,” they told Poll
rudely. “What you knockin’ yourself on
for?”

“He won’t die,” she came back tiercel}
“I won’t let him.” And, of course, sh
didn’t, although always he was sicklj
Later, he suffered four straight attacks c
rheumatic fever and acquired a doubl
heart murmur which rates Bobby Dari
4-F for the Service today.

Back then, in her struggle, Bobby’
mother had no place to turn for help. Sh
neither asked, received, nor expected an
lift from her own family. To them it wa
bad enough that she had run away fror
home to sing and dance. But to marry a;
Italian immigrant’s son was the end. Poll
was promptly disowned and cut off cole
But she never forgot that she was Paulin
Walden. She named her son Walden Rob
ert Cassatto. And, when he grew u
enough, she told him who he was.

“You bear a proud name and an o!
one,” she’d say to the puzzled boy. “Th
Waldens have been in America for 35
years. They helped settle Massachusett
and New England. Thoreau’s pond wa
named after them. They’re related to th
first families who came over on the May
flower.”

“What good s all that junk?” Bobby firei
back. “What does it mean to us, to me-
here?”

“You’ll understand when you grow up,
she’d tell him. “And you won’t always sta;

here.” They both knew he had to get out.

Even today, Bobby Darin’s not sure he
understands what, if anything, it
means to be a Walden. He’s yet to
meet a relative on his mother’s side, and
doesn’t care if he ever does. But he always
felt that somehow he was different, as was
his mother, from the polyglot thousands
who swarmed around him. Someday he’d
get out, just like she said. She believed
so strongly in him, he knew he just
couldn’t let her down.

Sam Cassatto’s relatives had spurned
them too, when Sam died. They’d always
disliked Polly. She was fair, she was “for-
eign,” a mistake Sam had made. Once
widowed, they let her and her kids alone.

So, Bobby Cassatto grew up sensing,
acutely, that he was out of place and won-
dering desperately what his place was.

Polly couldn’t tell him that. All she
could do was set an example of gentle-
ness, courage and pride to help him face
and defeat the rude world of the Bronx
tenements.

Bobby’s playground was the asphalt
jungle. He dodged trucks playing stick-
ball, cooled off in sweltering summers at
the spraying “johnnypump” hydrants un-
til cops scattered the ragged bathers. He
romped with all colors and creeds, saw
some steal, others mutilate their enemies
and run in outlaw packs.

Although Polly’s railroad flat on 135th
Street was as poor as the next one, it was
neat as a pin. The Cassattos lived on Relief
throughout Bobby’s boyhood, helped out
when Nina and her new husband, Charlie
Maffia, moved in. Still, there were always
books that somehow Polly had collected.
Sick or not, Polly sang around the house,
and made a happy home. Toys miracu-
lously showed up at Christmas and once
even a battered bike. The scratchy radio
was always tuned in to good music and
good dramas. Sundays, Bobby served the
altar at the Episcopal church. “I guess
you’d say I had nothing but insecurity,”
muses Bobby. “But I never felt that way.
At home, I had the security of thoughts
and knowledge. And, above all, love,
warmth and gentleness.”

He watched kids around him get swatted
by their parents, screamed at and cursed.
Yet, he doesn’t remember his mother lift-
ing a hand against him all his boyhood, or
even raising her voice, and she had plenty
of provocations.

Once, when he was only six, and his
mother was sick in bed, Bobby ventured
out on the fire escape and dangled peril-
ously from his knees four stories above
the pavement. His mother saw it all, but,
even though her heart seemed to stop, she
kept quiet until he crawled back in and
she could explain why he must never do
that again. Another time, she caught Bob-
by in the kitchen industriously rolling
eggs off the table to splatter on the floor —
“bombing Japs.” Eggs were a Relief sur-
plus then, and Bobby had destroyed nine
dozen — family breakfasts for a month —
before she stopped him. But his mom
quietly cleaned up the mess, and her si-
lence was more punishing than a licking.

Because his skinny body seemed to har-
bor every germ that invaded the Bronx,
Bobby was kept out of school until he was
almost eight. But he was buried in a book
from the time he was four. The day Polly
finally took him to P.S. 43, the teacher
frowned.

“You’re too old for kindergarten,” she
pondered. “But you obviously can’t do first
grade work. These children are already
beginning to read.”

“Try him,” suggested Polly.

Bobby spied a familiar volume on the
teacher’s desk, which she had been scan-
ning for her own pleasure. He’d been

reading that book since he was five. He
flipped it to “Julius Caesar” and rattled
through Shakespeare’s play as if it were
“Mother Goose.”

“You’re a very unusual boy,” gasped
the teacher. She placed him in 1-A. He
skipped half-grades five times. When he
moved on to junior high, Bobby Cassatto
was valedictorian of his class.

“It wasn’t such a feat,” debunks Bobby
today. “I had no competition.”

Of course, that wasn’t entirely true. Dog
fight competition was the law of life in the
Bronx. And a kid like Bobby Cassatto was
strictly a short-ender in the things that
seemed to count. He was no hero because
he was smart in shook The kids derisively
called him “Dictionary,” “Wise Guy,”
“Genius” and, of course, “Teacher’s Pet.”
They roughed up his puny frame at school
and chased him home afterward. He wor-
shipped big league baseball, but at sports
he was nothing. When he looked in the
mirror, Bobby saw only a bony nose,
pinched, drawn cheeks and black eyes
like coal-holes. He told himself he was
ugly. Sometimes, he didn’t have to tell
himself.

There had always been girls on Bobby
Cassatto’s mind — on his mind and rub-
bing his sensitive emotions raw. There
was Eleanor in P.S. 43, a pretty blonde,
but she wouldn’t even talk to him. There
was Gloria right on the block, a hopeless
crush who never knew he existed or
cared. And Mary, whom he tried to im-
press by eating grass and match books.
She only said, "Bet you can’t eat tar.” So
he got a hunk out of a street repair pot,
swallowed it and was deathly sick while
she giggled.

All these rebuffs, torments and per-
secutions Bobby confided to his mother. “I
was no mama’s boy,” he hastens to ex-
plain. “No silver cord or anything like
that. We were just very close. She was
both a father and a mother.”

At such times, Polly consoled him.
"Never mind. When you grow up you’ll
have it all over these kids. They won’t
know what to do with their lives and you
will.” He believed her, but adulthood
seemed a long way off to a boy just en-
tering adolescence. Bobby wanted to be
popular now, wanted to belong.

“I knew I didn’t belong where I lived
and that I never would,” he recalls. “But
when you’re breaking into your teens you
sure don't want to be an isolationist!” At
P.S. 37, in junior high, he began looking
around for a weapon. Pretty soon he
found one: He could make people laugh.

“I studied the kids,” he says, “and I re-
alized that if I made them laugh I could
control them. So I deliberately turned my-
self into a clown.” He practiced gags,
jokes, and wisecracks. He twisted his plain
face into comical shapes, hammed up and
mimicked everything. It got results: The
tough guys liked to have a jester. Even
the girls said, “You aren’t the best look-
ing, but you’re the most fun.”

That was the beginning of Bobby Darin,
entertainer. Clowning around desperately,
he first glimpsed a slit of light in an es-
cape hatch from the Bronx slums. “I no-
ticed a change in myself about then,”
Bobby reports. “I began to drive. I figured
show business of some sort was my best
and fastest hitch out.”

PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS
Dinah Shore color courtesy of NBC-TV; Diane Baker
color and black-and-white by Vivian Crozier;
Sandra Dee color by Globe ; Ingrid Bergman by
Paris Match; Bobby Darin by Black Star; Annette
Funicello and Paul Anka by Topix; Best Foot For-
ward by Martin Blumenthal; Connie Stevens by
Lawrence Schiller.

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So, when he splintered his leg in a
street accident, some months later, Bobby
spent his time in bed mastering a ukulele.
He borrowed a flute from school and a
horn and figured them out, too. He
scrounged the neighborhood for records
and listened to them time and time again
on his ancient Victrola. When he had
the money, he haunted movies, watching
the pros.

In P.S. 37 he talked to his guidance
teacher. Bobby wanted to switch to a
performance school, and he explained why.
The counselor nodded understandingly.
“But,” he argued wisely, “you’re bright.
Get a good academic foundation first.
Then, whatever you do, you’ll be better
at it.” At home, Polly Cassatto agreed.
So, when he was twelve, Bobby took the
stiff entrance exam for the Bronx High
School of Science. Bronx Science is one of
the toughest high schools in the United
States. It exists for gifted students only.
Bobby passed the test. He got a “needy”
scholarship to help and graduated at six-
teen.

“Those four years,” Bobby says today,
“were my first breakaway, the first time I
got a look outside my neighborhood. I
met an entirely different kind of crowd.
For the first time, I discovered real com-
petition in school. It was an eye-opener
and a challenge.”

Bobby was in the odd spot of being se-
duced by learning. Chemistry, physics,
advanced math — which he necessarily
bored into — tugged at him like sirens. As
Bobby puts it, “Learning both fascinated
and frightened me. I was afraid I’d get
to like that stuff too much. It wasn’t the
side I wanted nurtured. The thought of
being an entertainer had gotten deep into
my blood. And yet — ”

He’d had his first taste of conflict.

Nowadays, Bobby Darin can read and
study as a relaxed hobby. Back then
it churned him up inside. And there
was something else: He was still clown-
ing to win attention, and he was sick of the
role.

One week he heard about a five-piece
dance band some school guys were work-
ing up. All spots were filled except the
drums. “I’m a drummer,” lied Bobby to
the leader.

“Okay, show up Tuesday and we’ll try
you out.”

Tuesday was a week off. He had a
friend named Joe who owned a whole set
of drums. So Bobby raced up to Joe’s
place on 141st Street and borrowed them.
All he asked was, “How do you hold the
sticks, Joe?”

That night he set them up in his living
room and practiced hard. When neigh-
bors pounded on the walls, he took them
down to the basement. Six days later he
tried out and got the job. For Bobby, it
opened up an exciting new world.

“Suddenly, I meant something at school,”
says Bobby. “I wasn’t just a kookie little
clown. I was Bobby Cassatto, the hot
drummer. You know,” Bobby confesses,
“most people want to be liked for what
they are. With me it’s always been the
reverse. I want to be liked for what I
do.”

The last summer in high school, Bobby
and the group got a job at a hotel in
the Catskills. They waited on tables by
day, played dances and put on shows at
night. In the fall, Bobby entered Hunter
College. First thing he did was join the
Drama Society; Hunter College in the
Bronx is no drama school. Bobby had
chosen it because it was close by and
free.

“The first year was great,” says Bobby.
“I did skits in variety shows. But the next
year the Society put me to work on sets.

They let me read for things but never
do them. I lost interest in school. I had
to get going.”

Two weeks after Bobby quit school he
spotted an ad in a show business sheet:
“Wanted: Actors to try out for the Chil-
dren’s Theater Group.” Bobby hustled
down to an office off Broadway, came out
with a job. For the next seven weeks
he performed in elementary school audi-
toriums around the East Coast. He played
a wicked Indian chief and kids kicked
him in the shins as he came out of school
buildings. But he drew $45 a week; he
was an actor, he kidded himself. But he
couldn’t kid himself long.

Back in New York, when Bobby Cas-
satto padded around theatrical agencies,
all he could offer for experience was the
Indian. They laughed at him. Hungry,
he took a job as an office boy, hoping to
exist until summer when he could go up
again to the Catskills. And all the while,
at the back of his mind, was the image
of his mother in their Bronx slum — an
image which kept him going.

That summer proved the turning-point
of his career. In the Catskills, he met
Don Kirschner, an ambitious young
college boy who also wrote songs. Don
became very fond of Bobby’s work and
that fall, introduced him to an agent. The
agent liked Bobby’s voice better than his
songs and at first Bobby began to record
only other people’s music.

He made more than fifteen losers and
sang in dozens of small night clubs up and
down the country before he finally had
his hit. And he had to write that one
himself. It was “Splish-Splash.”

This sent him winging. He cleared $25,-
000 from that and the first thing Bobby
did was to buy a house for his mother in
Lake Hiawatha, New Jersey, out in the
fresh air, away from the Bronx. And it
was a big, big day for him when he moved
all his family — Nina, Charlie and his
nieces there.

One night, last year, he was watching
his good friend Jerry Lewis, at a club
in Hollywood, when a call from New
Jersey came for him backstage. No one
there knew where he was, so he didn’t
find out about it until late that night. He
called home with an unexplained chill
around his heart.

“Bobby, Mommy’s in the hospital,” said
Nina. “She’s had a bad stroke. Maybe
you’d better come.”

He couldn’t get a plane until morning.
When he arrived it was too late. They
all said that right before Polly Cassatto
died she kept repeating her son’s name.

At the funeral Bobby Darin stood a long
time before the flower banked bier. He
couldn’t believe she was gone. He thought
of the things he should have done, and
hadn’t, he consoled himself that before
she died, his mother knew of some that
he had. The things yet undone, he’d
better get about doing.

He went home and into his room alone.
Very softly, he began to cry. His mother
had meant so much to him. If it weren’t
for her encouragement, he never would
have stuck it out this long. They were so
close. Then he stopped crying, dried his
eyes, lifted the phone receiver and put in
a call to Hollywood.

“Steve? Bobby. Where do I meet you?”
“Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Yes,” said Bobby. That night he took
a plane out and the next night he was
singing again with everything he had.

“I knew that’s the way she would have
wanted it,” says Bobby.

— KIRTLEY BASKETTE

HEAR BOBBY SING ON THE ATCO LABEL AND THE
TITLE SONG IN WARNERS* “TALL STORY.”

DINAH SHORE

Continued from page 56

experience. I know I was. But I also re-
member how awful it was at the time. So
what can I tell her? How can I explain
she’s gained, she didn’t lose? How can I
explain to her why I hope she makes the
mistake I did?”

Dinah was silent a moment and then
continued, “Everytime you think you love
somebody, you feel enriched. But when
he doesn’t love back, it hurts. I know now
that every bitter experience makes the
sweet one so much sweeter, but do you
think a girl who cries herself to sleep at
night can believe it?”

It’s an old story. The phone that rings
every day for a while, and then doesn’t
ring any more . . . the letters from military
academy or Scout camp or college that ar-
rive with less and less frequency, and then
stop coming entirely . . . the boy who used
to wait after school, every afternoon, to
walk you part of the way home and then
passes with an indifferent nod . . . the
girl who dreads every new morning and
each new, lonely night more and more,
because these things have happened. The
story’s familiar to Dinah Shore. It’s been
her story more than once, and now she
says she’s glad it was, because each time
she learned a new lesson in love that
helped her, finally, to choose the right
man to be her husband — that helped her
to be happy.

For Dinah, young love — first heartaches —
began in the tall, gray building that
was Hume Fogg High School, across the
street from the Customs House, in Nash-
ville, Tennessee.

“Come on, Dinah,” the girl at the next
locker said, “who do you like? You’re
bound to like somebody. I know you do.”

Rummaging in the recesses of her locker,
the girl took out a cellophane bag.

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“Here,” she said, hospitably holding it
out, “have a dried apricot. They’re good.
And you might as well tell me who you
like.”

Dinah hung up her raincoat and reached
for her Latin book.

“No, thanks. I don’t want any apricots,”
she said. “And as for who I like — I like
lots of boys, nobody special.”

“I’ll bet you do, too,” her neighbor in-
sisted. “I’ll tell you who I like if you tell
me who you like.”

Just then the bell rang and their chatter
was drowned in the noise of students
hurrying down the hall.

“I’ve got to rush,” Dinah shouted. “I’m
late for Latin class now.”

Yet, as she said the words, her heart
began to churn. She gulped and breathed
deeply. Who would believe going to Latin
class could be so exciting? she asked her-
self. But who could believe there was a
boy in the world like Alec? It would be
impossible to tell anybody what he was
like — not that she’d try. And would she
ever have dared believe, last semester,
that he’d like her better than any other
girl in school? Or, at least, that’s what
he’d said.

Panting a little, she ran up the stairs to
the second floor. She wanted to get to
Latin class before Alec took his seat.

When she got upstairs, she noticed he
was standing in the door. She’d recognized
his silhouette long before she was near
enough for his features to come clearly
through the dimness of the hall. And she
knew, too, when she’d be close enough,
he’d smell like wintergreen chewing gum.

“Hey, girl,” he said and winked.

“Hey,” she said. Little chills playing
along her backbone.

She wanted to touch him, and yet she
didn’t want to. She’d never really felt this
way before in her life.

Alec looked at her smilingly, as though
he knew what she was thinking. Then he
took her by the arm and led her to her
desk.

"Are you going to ride the streetcar home
today?” he wanted to know. “Because if
you do, I will. Suppose I meet you on the
corner of Eighth Avenue by the drugstore
after school? Okay?”

Smiling, Dinah nodded.

Could this be true? Could it really be
happening to her? Alec, football star, big
man in school, wanted to be with her.
Yes, it was true. Happily, she allowed
herself the luxury of believing it. The
drugstore on the corner, a dowdy, red-
brick building, was going to be a little bit
of heaven.

All thiough class, she was conscious of
Alec’s presence across the aisle. When he
looked at her, her hand shook until she
nearly dropped her pencil. His clean, blond
good looks had sent more than one girl
into a spin.

True to his word, Alec was waiting for
her by the drugstore when she got out of
school. And she felt so proud as he took
her hand and together they passed the
other students on the street ... all notic-
ing, all seeing them together. She knew
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admit, to herself, that this made their rela-
tionship extra special.

“Let me carry your books?”

Carefully, she handed them to him. He
was so thoughtful. And when the streetcar
came along, he jumped on first, especially
to help her up.

Then, when he put his arm around her
as they sat down in a double seat, she felt
a tingle of excitement. “How’s my girl
today?” he said.

“Wonderful . . . absolutely wonderful,”
she told him.

“What’s so special?”

“Oh . . . just spring,” she lied. “And the

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EXCLUSIVE STORIES ABOUT . . .

THE

HOLLYWOOD YEAR

The wonderful new 1960 PHOTOPLAY AN-
NUAL is now available. Here is Hollywood’s
most exciting book of the year. Here are
hundreds of thrilling pictures, as well as
exclusive stories about everybody of im-
portance in the movie world.

ON THE RECORD — Pages and pages of pictures and
stories of the big news events of Hollywood. The mar-
riages, divorces, separations, reconciliations, births and
deaths.

BIG CLICK — Pictures, as well as a thumbnail descrip-
tion of — Edd Byrnes • Annette Funicello • Pat Boone •
Debbie Reynolds • Fabian • Tuesday Weld • Rick Nelson
• Sandra Dee • James Darren • David Nelson • Millie
Perkins • Dean Stockwell • Carol Lynley.

THE BIG BEAT — Here are the top men and women in
the world of the big beat — Dick Clark • Elvis Presley •
Bobby Darin • Frankie Avalon • Paul Anka • Tommy
Sands • Dodie Stevens • Connie Francis.

TOGETHERNESS — Wonderful romantic pictures and
stories about these happily marrieds — Natalie Wood and
Bob Wagner • Janet Leigh and Tony Curtis • Roger
Smith and Victoria Shaw • Efrem Zimbalist. Jr. and
Stephanie Spaulding • James Garner and Lois Clarke •
Jack Kelly and May Wynn • Joanne Woodward and Paul
Newman.

PINUPS — Your collection won't be complete without the
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Kim Novak • Liz Taylor • Sal Mineo • Tab Hunter.

IN THE GROOVE — Up-to-date stories and pictures of
these great favorites of yours — Susan Hayward • Rock
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• Audrey Hepburn • Ava Gardner • Ingrid Bergman •
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PLUS — pictures and stories of 31 rising stars to the
screen. Also 8 pages of stars who are on the TV screen.

ONLY 50<£ WHILE THEY LAST

PHOTOPLAY ANNUAL I960 is the greatest. Get your
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Bartholomew House, Inc. Dept. WG-460
205 E. 42 St., New York 17, N. Y.

Send me PHOTOPLAY ANNUAL 1960.
I enclose 50c.

Name

(Please Print)

Address

City State

thought of an evening without hardly any
homework to do.”

“Well, if you’re free and I’m free too,
maybe we could take in an early movie?”

“Mother doesn’t usually like me going
out during the week. But she likes you . .
and if it’s early, I’m sure she won’t mind.”
Dinah tried hard not to let him see how
thrilled she was with the invitation.

Yet, it had been one of many such invi-
tations. So many, that soon she began to
think of Alec as exclusively hers. He was
all she thought about, all she dreamed
about and all she believed she was living
for. It would be Alec and her forever . . .
for always.

But it wasn’t. And he broke it off so
cruelly that for a long while she felt
lost and hopeless.

Dinah’s agony was to begin shortly after
she heard about the luncheon. A club, to
which Alec belonged, was entertaining and
members were inviting their mothers and
their girls. At first, she took it for granted
she would be his guest. After all, she was
his girl, wasn’t she?

Maybe he didn’t ride home on the street-
car with her quite so often as before.
Maybe he was in a hurry after Latin class
and didn’t have time to talk, but he was a
big man in school. He had other things
on his mind besides girls.

But, as the luncheon date approached,
and he still didn’t mention it. a sick fear
replaced vague uncertainty. Slowly truth
overpowered hope, until one day she found
out the truth.

“I guess that girl Jill Peabody really has
Alec going?” Dinah’s friend at the next
locker confided. “She’s kinda cute, too
I saw them last night at Hillsboro Phar-
macy. And my brother said that Alec’s
taking her to the luncheon.”

Locker doors all around were banging
as students grabbed books for first period
class. Blindly, Dinah reached for hers, but
her hands felt stiff and icey.

She wondered whether she looked dif-
ferent to the other girls. Did her expres-
sion give her away?

Being honest with herself, she admitted
she’d known something like this was going
to happen. But she’d almost convinced
herself that it wasn’t so.

“Well,” she said with effort, “that’s in-
teresting. But I’ve got to hurry to Latin
class.”

And blinking back tears, she marched
down the hall.

When she reached the room, Alec was
already at his desk looking out toward
the window. She walked over to him.

“Hello, Alec,” she made herself say. This
was hard — speaking to him naturally — but
she had to be sure, right now, that she
could do it. She couldn’t let him see she
knew about the luncheon — or cared.

“Oh, hello,” he answered.

In her heart, she wanted to scream at
him, ask him why, why had he done this
thing to her, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

The worst was still ahead. It came after
dinner, that night, while Dinah was pin-
ning up her hair. Her mouth was full of
pins when the telephone shrilled.

“Dinah dear,” her mother called, “the
phone’s for you. I think it’s Alec.”

Dinah dropped the pins on the dresser
and scrambled for the phone. Her head
was swimming. So everything was all right
after all. The other girl must be a family
friend, and he was calling to explain. Had
he behaved so strangely, lately, because
he was afraid she wouldn’t understand?
He should have known her better.

Shakily, she lifted the receiver and
leaned her head against the wall for sup-
port.

“Is that you, Alec?” she whispered.
“Yep. I called because I think it’s best

for you to understand right now that
everything’s off between us. I don’t think
we really had anything in common. So I
guess we won’t see each other again— ex-
cept in class, of course.”

For a minute, Dinah couldn’t say a word,
then, speaking carefully, she told him,
“That’s all right. I was going to say the
same thing next time we had a chance to
talk. I felt that way, too.”

It took a long time to get over that,” Dinah
remembers. “I was hurt, terribly hurt,
and I felt like crawling into a shell and
staying there forever. But I didn’t . . . and
I’m glad I didn’t. Because in a few weeks
I’d met someone else I liked and, oddly
enough, had far more in common with.
Sometimes, a broken heart is mostly just
broken pride. But it took a painful ex-
perience before I learned this.

“I was about fifteen when 1 broke up
with Alec and for weeks I couldn’t eat or
sleep. My family pretended not to notice
what was wrong with me, but they worried.

“Actually, though, it turned out to be
just one of a string of unrequited loves.
Always, it seemed, if I liked somebody a
lot, he didn’t like me. Or, if he liked me
for a while, he’d soon drop me. Eventually,
I found out the end of a romance isn’t the
end of the world. Either the one I wanted
would come back, or I’d meet somebody
else I liked better.

“Every time I fell in love. Dinah con-
tinued, “while I was growing up, the boys
somehow seemed to lack something.” But,
she says, today, when she met George, he
was all the things she’d wanted rolled into
one. And, when she found out he loved
her. too, it was wonderful beyond anything
she’d ever imagined.

“That’s why I believe unhappy teenage
romances are so important. They give you
experience so you can recognize and ap-
preciate the real love of your life.

“Missy’s only twelve, but she’s already
interested in boys. And she’s so pretty, I
know they’ll be interested in her. I wasn’t
pretty. That didn’t bother me though, be-
cause I was busy cheerleading and acting
with the dramatic club. But I worry about
Missy. Her opportunities to fall in love
with the wrong boys will be so much
greater than mine.

“If only,” Dinah says, “a young girl is
careful not to let a broken heart make her
cynical, she’ll gain something valuable
everv time she loves.

“But she must be careful. A girl’s heart
is too precious to be squandered carelessly.

“I want Missy to be in love, or to think
she’s in love, more than once. Every ex-
perience becomes part of the fabric that’s a
personality. The love you give without
return can be a bis, ugly, burnt hole in the
blanket, or beautiful trimming. It depends
on how you let it affect you.

“Each time I fell in love I believe I
learned a little more about living. Such
as what it’s like to be a guitarist (from a
guitar player), or something of political
science (from a studious boy I used to wor-
ship) and how to swim (from a boy who
was an Olympic swimmer)1

“But seriously,” she finished, “I want
Missy to get hurt so that she can go on to
realize that there are many boys in the
world to meet and like. And by doing so, I
think she will learn, as I did, to recognize
the right man when he comes along. By
the time I met George, I could tell he was
special because I had so many others to
compare him to. I was able to appreciate
his qualities for all that they are. Yes, I
hope Missy makes the mistake I did.”

—ARLENE JOHNSON

don’t MISS “the DINAH SHORE CHEVY SHOW”
SUNDAYS FROM 9:00-10:00 P.M. EST, OVER
NEC-TV. HEAR HER SING ON CAPITOL LABEL.

March, 1960

Jtlontfjlp Eecorb

Vol. 2, No. 2

NEW TREND-THE BALLAD RETURNS

New jor the ’sixties. A trend back to
ballads from rock ’n’ roll. Newest
singer on the ballad bandwagon is
Jeanie Sommers, eighteen, seen here
with Edd. She sang with him in “Koo-
kie’s Love Song,” has also appeared
on “77 Sunset Strip.” Her first album,
just out, is romantic and called “ Posi-
tively the Most!” How did she like
working with Edd? “It was really
great” she said. But she would not
tell me any more — except give a sigh.

Joke

of the Month

Joey Bishop, a talented young come-
dian, told me this. Hope you like it
too! It’s all for young dieters.

A woman I know went to a diet spe-
cialist in Hollywood who was famous
for his near-miraculous results. “I've
heard so much about you.’’ she said
to the specialist, “that now I'm pre-
pared to place myself completely in
your hands. Only tell me this. Doctor,
what is the secret of your success?”
The doctor smiled pleasantly. “Eat
whatever you want,” he explained.
“Only don’t swallow it.”

have you heard...

What They’re Playing: The brand
new Photoplay album by Warner
Bros. “Photoplay Picks the Great
Love Themes of Hollywood.” . . .
“RED Tab Hunter” (Warner Bros.)
— niftyville music with a country and
western beat . . . “The Magic of Sarah
Vaughan” (Mercury). Sassy’s come a
long way since her amateur hour days
at the Apollo (where lots of today’s
singers are getting their start) . . .
“Teensville” (RCA). If you ask me.
Chet Atkins’ guitar is hard to beat
. . . “Latin a la Lee” (Capitol). Peggy
belts out Broadway hits, adds an ir-
resistible Afro-Cuban beat . . . “Some-
body Loves Me” (Capitol). Dinah
Shore singing oldies but goodies . . .
“Bobby Scott Plays the Music of
Leonard Bernstein” (Verve). These
are Bernstein’s show tunes and they’ve
never sounded better (at least, that’s
what Bernstein said in a letter to
Bobby) . . . "Opera For People Who
Hate Opera.'' For short hairs who'd
like to grow a few long strands. The
most amusing cover of the month
(RCA) . . . “American Waltzes” by
the Fred Astaire Dance Studio Orch.
(RCA Camden). As a bonus, you get
a booklet of dance instructions.

Worth having just for the cover

Ideal music for steps on page 46

What They’re Talking About: Sal

Mineo and Ina Balin. an every-night-
out twosome . . . Susan Kohner’s fa-
vorite date- George Hamilton . . .
Latest rumor from Bennington, Ver-
mont: Diane Varsi’s returning to Cali-
fornia to live the life of a beatnik . . .
Singer Johnny Cash has collapsed
twice from overwork . . . Reports that
Rod Lauren, the new teen singer, will
be the find of the year . . . Bound to
be lots of happy teen gals in North
Carolina where Fabulous Fabe is film-
ing his new movie, “High Time.”
Fabe’s new leading lady? Tuesday
Weld . . . Romance bust-ups of the
month: Lori Nelson and Burt Reyn-
olds; Kathy Nolan and Bob Fuller
(called the “kooks” for going para-
chuting on dates).

Off-The-Cuff Comments picked up
from the stars at ABC studio where my
radio program. “Teen Town.” is aired.
“Now that I have money.” says
Dwayne Hickman, “I’m so busy work-
ing I don’t have time to spend it.”

. . . Says Frankie Avalon, “I believe
in teens having idols. For that mat-
ter. everybody should look up to some-
body. I idolized Louis Armstrong,
still do.” . . . Annette Funicello: “I
miss Elvis very much. When I was in
Memphis, Wink Martindale and I
went to visit El's mansion. It's great.”

Jfflontljlp Eecorb continued

What’s in the Stars?

PUZZLE

Fad Alley

Were you born be-
tween February 20th
and March 20th?
Then you belong to
I lie twelfth sign of
the zodiac — Pisces
l he Fish — like Gor-
don MacRae (Mar.
12). Dean Stockwell (Mar. 5). Betty
Hutton (Feb. 26), David Niven and
Dinah Shore (Mar. 1), Liz Taylor (Feb
27), Desi Arnaz (Mar. 2).

You are an idealist and look at the
world the way you wish it were — rather
than the way it is.

You have wonderful intuition, and
more often than not. your feelings are
right — plus a keen insight into other
people. If they lie. you can usually tell.

Sometimes, you shy away from the
world and like to be
left alone, to re-evalu-
ate your life and con-
sider the future.

Try to choose
friends that are sen-
sitive, because mutual
understanding is very
important in all of
your relationships.

You love mysteries, have a wonderful
imagination, a leaning for semi-classical
music and you can enjoy fine art.

Your fine imagination can be used
to great advantage in all artistic work.

Some of the greatest
painters, musicians
and artists are born
under your sign.
These qualities also
make you superb in
such lines of work as
staging and directing
in the theater.

You have a strong
tendency to adapt yourself to surround-
ing conditions. This is so definite with
you, that if you’re around someone who
is ill or upset you promptly take that
condition upon yourself. Shun dark,
depressing places and moody thoughts
in order to avoid any unpleasantness
because of this condition. Generally,
your hunches are excellent.

You want to be helpful and you can
help others a great deal. But you must
remember, no one individual is able to
solve the problems ol the world.

Your lucky number? 7.

Dean

□

;

% i

■■■■/ ■ ■

IS-

»7

■ — ;

ACROSS

1. Dee Clark's “ About That”

5. Jimmy Clanton’s record label

7. His ‘‘Running Bear” is a big hit

8. Contraction for I am

10. A singer who’s made the grade
1 1 The way Dominico Modugno says yes

12. Rural Delivery (abbrev.)

14 Last year in high school (abbrev.)

16. The ‘‘Lonely Blue Boy”

1 7. Smith or Wayne

18 Measurement (abbrev.)

19. Little Anthony’s record label

20. Her's is the popular “The Big Hurt”

21. “ Paso"

22. Photoplay's singer of the month (pictured)

DOWN

2. An oldie Dion and the Belmonts have

made a hit

3. A style all his own has Johnny

4. The divorce capital

6. Commanding officer (abbrev.)

7. There are four of them

9. The best-seller of 3 down

13. Climbing fast is his "Teen Angel”

1 5. “We Got Love” is his

16 Anka’s "It’s Time Cry”

1 7. Fast transportation from East to West

Coast

Can You Guess This Star’s Name?

[da.]} fo aSn at {] iv — ajqvuf) Xjjag

Hollywood's latest rage : lots of beads.

All the rage in Hollywood these
days are beads — chokers and strings
of all kinds. So I went along with
Tommy Sands when he went out
shopping the other day for a gift.
There were so many styles that —
you guessed it — we ended up with
NOTHING. Which started us won-
dering? W'hat jewelry do you like?

1. Do you prefer:

□ single strand of pearls

□ many-strand choker with jewel detail
0 combining several necklaces and

ropes for a bunched or high look
0 a locket

2. Do you prefer:

0 a single small pin
0 a large pin

0 scatter pins

3. Do you prefer:

0 charm bracelet: 0 bangles:

0 chunky 0 gold

0 delicate charms 0 silver

0 your own collection 0 color
Do you wear: 0 one at a time
0 mixed beads 0 an armful

0 watch bracelet
0 identification bracelet

After you've checked your an-
swers. mail (along with your age)
to “Monthly Record.” Photoplay,’
Dept. CO. 205 East 42nd St.. New
York. N.Y. And to the first 12 an-
swers every Monday between March
7 and 28. we'll send a piece of jew'-
elry from Coro’s collection (below).

■

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More doctors advise Ivory than any other
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doctors include skin specialists. They
know the milder your beauty soap the
prettier your skin. You know it, too, if
you’ve tried Ivory.

Beauty is a simple thing with Ivory. Use
it every day — soon you’ll have That
Ivory Look.

Listerine stops bad breath
4 times better than tooth pastel

Every time you brush your teeth,
finish fixe , j ol>. . . reaeh for Listerine

Germs all over your mouth and throat cause most bad breath.
Tooth paste can’t even reach most of these germs, let
alone kill them. You need a free-flowing liquid antiseptic —
Listerine Antiseptic — to do that. Listerine is amazingly
"wet”— far more fluid than any tooth paste. And
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on contact, by millions. No wonder Listerine
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Every Lime you lxrusli your teeth,

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Your tooth paste
reaches only this
small area around
teeth and gums.
And no tooth paste
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The Listerine way
covers four times
more germ-laden
surface, kills
germs all over
mouth, throat.

*See directions on label.

p Dash-Away brief 5.95. Padded French Secret
bra 5.95. For store name, free booklet write

MAY, I960

VOL. 57, NO.

FAVORITE OF AMERICA'S MOVIEGOERS FOR OVER FORTY YEARS

DEBBIE REYNOLDS

FRANKIE AVALON
EFREM ZIMBALIST

BRIGITTE BARDOT
SAL MINEO
ANNETTE FUNICELLO

JAMES DARREN

SUSAN KOHNER and
GEORGE HAMILTON
DORIS DAY
PAT BOONE
JOAN CAULFIELD

BONUS

35 The Party Hollywood Will Never Forget
71 Exclusive Interview with Debbie by Sara Hamilton

EXCLUSIVE *

47 Why Frankie Wouldn't Talk About His Secret Bride by Jim Hoffman
54 Cart Any Wife Ever Be Sure? by Anita Allen

ARTICLES AND SPECIAL FEATURES

To Think ... I Didn’t Want the Baby by Blaine Blake
What Makes a Fellow Call Again? by Barbara Harris
“What I Learned About Men Since Last Monday”

by Annette as told to Charlotte Barclay
Janies Darren Marries Evy Norlund by George Christy
Your Handwriting Never JLies by Rosa Ro sella
‘Can You Keep My Secret?” by Marcia Borie

“If I Were Seventeen Again" by Elva Newman

“Dear God, Could You Please Speak a little louder?” by Lee Silvian

“Can A Baby Save My Marriage?" by Bob Thomas

TRAVEL SECTION: 7 PAGE VACATION GUIDE

60 lowdown on Offbeat Hollywood by Sidney Skolsky
62 Six Days to Play

64 How To Be In When You Go Out — with an $87.41 Wardrobe

YOUNG IDEAS

8 Monthly Record 88 Your Needlework

12 Readers Inc. 92 Becoming Attractions

86 Your Monthly Ballot 94 Answers to April's Puzzle

95 Where to Buy Photoplay Fashions

NEWS AND REVIEWS

4 Hollywood For You by Skolsky 20 Go Out to a Movie

18 Now Playing (Brief Reviews) 28 Inside Stuff by Sara Hamilton

102 Cast of Current Pictures

COVER PHOTO: Portrait of Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh by Nat Dallinger — Gilloon Photo Agency

EVELYN PAIN, Editor

CLAIRE SAFRAN, Managing Editor
andree brooks. Associate Editor
TOBI felDStein, Assistant Editor

JIM HOFFMAN, vivien mazzone, Contributing Editors
anne kanes. Assistant to Editor

KENNETH CUNNINGHAM, Art Director
NORMAN SIEGEL, West Coast Editor

k axe palumbo, Fashion Editor

JUNE CLARK., Beauty Editor
rocer marshutz, Staff Photographer
JOAN cl.arke. Assistant Art Director
MARCIA BORIS, IFpst Coast Contributor

Your June issue will be on sale at your newsstand on May 3rd

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Foreign editions hondied through Macfadden Publications International Corp., 205 East 42nd Street, New fork
17, N. Y. IrvingS. Manheime;, President; Douglas Lockhart, Vice-President.

Re-enfered os Second Class matter May 10, 1946 at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March
3 1879. Second-class postage paid at New York, N. Y,, and other post offices. Authorized as Second Class
Mail P O Dept., Ottawa, Ont., Canada. Copyright 1960 by Macfadden Publications, Inc. All rights reserved^
Copyright under the Universal Copyright Convention and International Copyright Convention. Copyright reserved
under Pan American Copyright Convention Todos derechos reservados segun la Convencion Panamericana de
Propiedod Literario y Artrstico Title trademark registered in U S. Patent Office. Printed in U. S. A. by Art Color
Printing Company. Member of True Story Women's Group.

Olga, Dept. PH 50,7915 Haskell, Van Nuys,Cal.

HEAR

DORIS SING!

"Please Don’t
Eat The Daisies”
"Anyway The
Wind Blows”

Co-Starring l

Screen
Play by

.OmjC

Based on Ihe Book by

JEAN KERR

I Associate
' Producer

IK im‘X

Produced I
by u

I Cinemascope and METR0C0L0R

metro

GoLPwy'N

MAYER

presents

lORlS

The uproarious Movie

BIG ^EST-SBLLER /

THAT’S
HOLLYWOOD
FOR VO l

BY SIDNEY SKOLSKY

I thought l had everything
all straight, then Dodie.
Connie and Inger con-
fused me all over again.

I wonder if Fabian would have made
good if he had talent. . . . Know what
Zsa Zsa Gabor is going to be like
when she's older? Jolie! . . . On meet-
ing Gina Lollobrigida for the first time,
you're surprised to find she’s not as tall
or as big as she appears on the screen.
. . . Fm for letting Diane Varsi do what
she wants to do. . . . Remember when
Martin and Lewis were a team and
everyone thought Lewis was the funny
one? . . . Marilyn Monroe has a way of
making all her imitators look phony. . . .
Is it because Sandra Dee and Tuesday
Weld were raised on different movie
lots that they’re lots different? . . .
Sophia Loren wears a man’s watch, and
I’d say this is the only thing masculine
about her. ... I wish someone would
tell me if they ever saw Brigitte Bardot
with her hair combed. . . . Difficult task:
Going out on a date with Kim Novak
unnoticed. . . . Hollywood is a place
where Barrie Chase goes to the movies
alone, paying her own freight. . . . I’m
not going to try to solve what happened
with Glenn Ford and Eleanor Powell. If
you must know, hire Perry Mason ! . . .
p Just when I knew Jeff Hunter from Tab
Hunter, along came Connie Stevens and
Dodie Stevens and Inger Stevens to con-

fuse me. . . . I’m for individuals like
Simone Signoret. whom there’s no other
individual like. . . . Bob Mitchum
characterized a popular movie star as,
“Deep down, he’s shallow. "

Debbie Reynolds doesn't need an
alarm clock. . . . Nick Adams should play
“What Makes Sammy Run?’’ if and
when it becomes a movie. ... You may
not believe it, but I saw Buddy Bregman
out alone. He wasn’t with May Britt or
Stella Stevens or Judi Meredith or Susan
Kohner. He was a-lone! . . . Don’t forget
France Nuyen was a character long be-
fore she met Marlon Brando. In fact
this may be why Marlon digs her. . . .
Hollywood is a place where pillows and
dreams are made of mink. ... I keep
reading about James Darren but I’ve
yet to see him in a picture. . . . “Love,”
Mort Sahl mumbled to me. “is the de-
lusion that one woman differs from
another.”

Now that Elvis is a civilian again
don’t you feel the country is safer? . . .
Pat Boone threw away those white
sneakers and no one missed them: not
even Pat Boone. ... I never believe for
a moment that Efrem Zimbalist Jr. is a
Private Eye. but I do accept Edd Byrnes’s
Kookie. . . I admit I sometimes be-

come a bit confused about Margaret
O’Brien, Joan O’Brien. Virginia O'Brien
and Erin O’Brien. ... I wish they’d
name all the young players after days
of the week, a la Tuesday, and the older
group after the months of the year. It
might make it easier to keep tab on
them. . . . The closest the screen has
come to capturing Joan Collins as Joan
Collins is in “Seven Thieves.” Someday
she’ll get the right role and be a big
star. . . . Hollywood is a place where
you can read people like a book, but
you can’t shut them up as easily. ... If
Janet Leigh wanted to campaign, she
could be a leading sexpot. . . . Isn’t it
about time for Millie Perkins to be in
another movie? ... I know a fellow
who thinks the girl-next-door is differ-
ent. He has the apartment next to Tina
Louise. . . . I’m weary of TV programs
that are The Wonderful World of some-
body or An Evening With somebody.
. . . Paul Newman and Joanne Wood-
ward believe they have acting roles in
“From the Terrace” because they play
a married couple who are always quar-
reling. . . . I’ll wager it was a surprise
to Doris Day when she discovered she
was the typical American girl tvpe. . . .
Googie Schwab about an- {Continued I

The BROADWAY HIT— NOW THE SCREEN’S CRAZIEST LARK!

Joan Blackman • Earl Holliman Fred Clark Gale Gordon Barbara Lawson

Directed by NORMAN TAUROG • Screenplay by EDMUND BELOIN and HENRY GARSON * Based on the play by GORE VIDAL • A PARAMOUNT PICTURE

TAN WITH

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HOLLYWOOD

continued

other’s starlet said, “She’ll go out with
anybody as long as he’s a somebody.”

I’ll admit I never confuse Ingrid
Bergman with Ingmar Bergman. . . . It’s
amazing but Gardner McKay is learn-
ing how to actually perform in front
of 20-million people every week. This
is part of our bewildering times. . . .
It’s a time when cool means hot, when a
person who is a square is something to
avoid, and mother is a dirty word. . . .
Hollywood is a place where Jane Mans-
field has trouble with a dress if it stays
on. . . . Frank Sinatra claims the art of
getting along with a woman is to under-

Only her family’s not surprised by Gina.

stand what she doesn’t say.

I’d like to know if Tony Perkins,
who’s a youngster, feels old when he
reads that George Hamilton is a young
Tony Perkins. . . . Sal Mineo acts as
if he swallowed a copy of Emily Post.
. . . Robert Horton drives that Wagon
Train the Method style. ... I’d be en-
thusiastic about Dinah Shore if she
weren’t so enthusiastic. ... I have a
yen for Jean Simmons that neither the
years nor Stewart Granger has lessened.
. . . Don’t let Tuesday Weld’s name or
publicity fool you — this Lolita has
Talent. . . . Diane Baker keeps on being
good as a goodie. . . . I’d say Dolores
Michaels stands a chance of breaking
through and getting into orbit. . . . May
Britt is alluring — clothed ! . . . Holly-
wood is a place where you can shop at
the Super Little Market and browse in
a shop which boasts “Modern Antiques
at Reasonable Prices.” That’s Holly-
wood For You.

STUDENTS: If you want to go to college
don 't let your parents see this picture /

Heres
everything
and i
everybody ^
^hat made
^r0ad*,a<

s»adeS!?S*

He makes the
great ones/

> Sayonara/

| Bus Stop.'

I Picnic/

1 South Pacific/

gupen-sauc/
prodociion
of-

From WARNER BROS. starring

•n Japanese

Kissing!

That baby-sitting

romance!

That girl
in the boys
locker room!

Those pom pom
9'>te/...gnd

con/

anthony Perkins “janefonda

the fabulous newjwng star /

MLLu MURRAY HAMILTON • ANNE JACKSON • Screenplay by JULIUS J. EPSTEIN

Produced and

Based on the stage play by HOWARD LINDSAY and RUSSEL CROUSE • Produced on the stage by EMMETT ROGERS and ROBERT WEINER Directed by

| WARNER BROS. First in Motion Pictures, Television, Music and Records!

April, 1960

ifflonthlp Hecotti

Vol. 2, No. 3

Tommy Sands Shocks His Fans;
Bobby Darin Looks In Love;
Rod Lauren s Secret Gets Out

Tab always manages to keep things jumping.

A fad for the Everlys; a kick for Rick.

if hat next for my good pal, Eddie Cochran?

On Vine. I spotted the little red
beany hat. and that's how I knew,
even from far away, that it was
Tommy Sands. 1 asked him how
he liked the service and, when he
told me he wasn’t in, I flipped.
“It’s just a rumor,” he smiled. “I
have at least another year to go.”

I ran into Bobby Darin with his
date. Judi Meredith, and they sure
looked starry-eyed and happy. . . .
I found out Rod Lauren’s secret.
When nobody’s looking, he wears
glasses. And looks great in them!

The Cricketts are teaching John-
ny O’Keefe, Australia’s “Wild
One,” how to play Monopoly.
Then a call came from Phil
Everly in Nashville. When I
asked what was new, Phil said,
“Monopoly!” And I hear Rick
Nelson is on a card kick and Edd
Byrnes is Perkuackey crazy. Crazy !

The hobby of the month is horses.
The Everly Brothers bought two
beautiful black ones. Rick has a
brown one he calls Tinker, and
Tab Hunter has a couple. . . . Eddie
Cochran called from Scotland to
say he met a family with the same
name. They made him very wel-
come and even presented him with
a family coat of arms. What next?

Thought for the month:

Blind is the successful man
Who cannot truly see
Someone gave a helping hand
Bigger than you and me.

— Shari Sheelev

have you heard...

Dion jimmy

They're red-hot —
Dion , 19, of the

Bronx; Jimmy
Clanton, 19, of
Baton Rouge ; and
Bobby Rydell, just
18 this month, of
Philly ( like Fabe).

Bobby

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VV The Chopin Ballades — Artur
Rubinstein I RCA Victor) All the
ballades on one LP

VV Beethoven Eroica — Tosca-
nini (RCA Victor) From the NBC
broadcast. Dec. 6. 1953.

—PAUL DREW. VVGST, ATLANTA

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What's in the Stars?

Were you born be-
tween March 21st
and April 19th?
Then you belong to
Aries, the first sign
of the zodiac. Other
Ariens are Joan
Crawford ( March
23 ) . Diane Jergens ( March 31 ) . Deb-
bie Reynolds (April 1), Alec Gui-
ness ( April 2 ) , Doris Day and Marlon
Brando (April 3), Tony Perkins
(April 4), Ward Bond I April 8).
Janies Garner and William Holden
(April 17). Jayne Mansfield (April
19).

What kind of a person are you?
You are the pioneer, the first to do
something new, the leader of your
crowd. But look out!

You’re inclined to
try new ventures
without completing
past commitments.

You often listen
to what other people
say, hut then you
turn around and do
just as you please, anyway.

You are active and energetic and
freedom-loving, so try to work at
things which allow you freedom. Be-
cause of your energy, you usually
aren't too anxious
to spend much time
at home.

You’re young in
spirit and you really
enjoy life. It’s a
funny thing, though,
you usually pick
partners and friends
who are more seri-
ous and down-to-earth.

You like to go off on jaunts and
trips to meet new people. You’re al-
ways the first in line when new fields
are open, and because of your won-
derful magnetism — which always im-
presses others — you have little trouble
persuading others to go along with
any plans you might have. You never
let anything block your way. — Erial

Doris

Tony

Debbie

PUZZLE

■

12.

I5~

lf>

'<?

2 S'

ACROSS

4. " Ko-Ko Bop" (See 2 Down)

6. Movie studio (abbrev.)

7. "Blue Denim" star (init.)

8. Sportin' Life in "Porgy & Bess"

9. A color well known to the G.l. (abbrev.)

10. Female star of "Some Like it Hot" (init.)

11. Related by blood

12. " The Sea," Darin's hit

14. The symbol for nickel

15. Jimmie Rodgers' " Love and Care"

18. Frankie Vaughn likes them jellied

19. An explosive (abbrev.)

20. The original "Jazz Singer"

21. Seventh note of the scale

22. Recording label of Andy Williams

26. Eydie Gorme's man

27. "Oh Susanna" star

DOWN

1. "Not One Minute More" has she

2. Same as 4 across

3. " One" by Bobby Rydell

4. Popular movie theme, "A "

5. He has a hit with "Teen Angel"

7. Stevens' "Sixteen Reasons"

11. Singer of the month (pictured)

13. He's wowing them with "He'll Have to Go"

16. His TV wife is Marjorie Lord (init.)

17. A popular label

23. Of (French)

24. "Teensville" is his (init.)

25. Still the Rock 'n' Roll King (nickname)

Can You Guess This Star’s Name?

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Petite, S, M, L: $2.50.

“Win a Phone Call” Contest Winners:

. . . I was more than proud to he the winner
of a phone call from Elvis, but my heart
is overflowing with happiness to know that
I have been able to give my friend, Mary
Ann Cole, this gift. I’ve given her many
treasured gifts throughout the years of
our friendship, but it was through your
kindness that she received one of the great-
est gifts of all. You have made Mary Ann
extremely happy — perhaps the richest girl
in the world — by permitting me to present
her with this gift.

Mary Ann Allen

Pittsburgh, Pa.

. . . I have never written a harder letter
than this in all my life, for I find my vo-
cabulary simply does not contain the words
with which I can express my gratitude and
happiness for the wonderful gift I have
received — a phone call from Elvis!

T can’t even describe my feelings when,
on the morning of December 24, I opened
your letter, along with the rest of my
Christmas cards. I just stood in the center
of the room and cried.

I’ve always known my friend, Mary Ann
Allen, to be generous and kind and 3 won-
derful friend. Rut to give me this! Yet,
when 1 try to thank her, she merely says,
“I knew how happy you’d be and I know-
how much you like Elvis.”

Mary Ann Cole
Pittsburgh, Pa.

. . . I finally talked to Rock Hudson —
and it was wonderful! I was so nervous
and I just know my voice shook and I
probably repeated myself a hundred times.
Prior to the call, I was determined to re-
main cool, calm and collected. Ha!!

We spoke about many things. It was
just wonderful. Thank you for making my
New Year such a nice one. It was great.

Elaine Potts
Springfield, 111.

. . . Being awarded the winner of a phone
call from Edd Byrnes made my Christmas
a perfect one.

I was too excited to ask him all the
questions I’d hoped to, but here are some
answers to the questions I did ask:

Q. ‘‘What’s the first thing you notice about
a girl?”

A. “That she isn’t a boy!”

Q. “If by magic you could have just one
wish, what would it be?”

A. “Two wishes!”

I know I'm the most envied girl in the
neighborhood thanks to Photoplay and its
editors.

.Tanice Anderson
Sierra Madre, Calif.

. . . Occasionally, I’d wonder what it would
be like to talk to a celebrity on the phone.
I hadn’t expected a call from Fabian! The
conversation I had with Fabian was great.

Fabian has a low, soft-spoken voice. He
spoke about girls, the draft and his new
movie "High Time.”

I didn’t think any star could be that
human, but you know what? He’s the kind
of a fellow you’d like to date.

Martha Eades
Marietta, Ga.

A Big Thank You

A great big thanks to Nick Adams,
Kathy Nolan, Peter Breck and Bess Myer-
son for helping the people of Milwaukee,
Wis. raise over 80 thousand dollars for the
1960 March of Dimes.

There are many such wonderful stars who
give up their time for such needy organiza-
tions.

Donna Schnitzler
Mukwonago, Wis.

That’s why James Darren is taking time
out to remind you to join the fight against
cancer by supporting the 1960 Crusade of
the American Cancer Society. — Ed.

continued

Write to Readers Inc., Photoplay, 205 E. 42nd
St., Neiv York 17, /V. V. We regret ive cannot
ansiver or return unpublished letters. To start
fan clubs or write stars, contact their studios.

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continued

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| confidentially . . .

= iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitii

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able bargain! created in Paris • made by bourjois in u.s.a.

. . . I’m an 18-year-old
Swedish girl who won-
ders if there’s anyone in-
terested in corresponding
with me in English or
German.

Elisabet Linde
Pdir. 11
O.D. Sweden

. . . Is there a girl or boy who would like
to be my correspondent? I’d like that so.
I am 16 years old.

Pedro Berger
Rivera 1930 — Apt 7
Montevideo, Uruguay
South America

. . . I just love Annette Funicello and would
like any pix or info on her.

Caren Pearson
9543 Meadowglen
Houston, Texas

. . . Will exchange movie magazine pictures
of Fabian, Ricky, Dick Clark or just about
any star from books of 2l/2 years old. Want
pictures of Scott Brady, Audie Murphy and
John Bromfield in return.

Mrs. Margaret Ellis
RT. 1 Box 46
Rock, W.Va.

. . . I d like to hear from anyone who has
any pictures of Deborah Kerr, particularly
from “The King and I” or before that.

Janie M. Lamb
1312 Idaho Ave.
Cape May, N. J.

. . . Are there any of you
as crazy about pen pals
as I am? If so, I’m look-
ing forward to hearing
from you.

I’m a teenager of 16,
an Elvis fan and a hot
rock ’n’ roller from the
plains of Hindustan.

Gladys Fernandes
Barnes High School
Deolali, Nasik (Dist!)
India.

. . . I have just started a Frankie Avalon
Fan Club. If any of you ever met him,
please write and tell me all about him.

Miss Airi Mallinen
Kirkkakatu 47
Oulu — Finland

. . . I am an Elvis fan as well as a Connie
Francis fan. I’d like very much to exchange
photos of these two fabulous singers.

Stephen Ewing
80 Waterloo Rd.
Kowloon,

Hong Kong

. . . Several months ago, I started collecting
pictures and articles on the late Mario
Lanza. If any reader has pictures or articles
on him, I would be willing to trade any
pictures I have of their favorite stars.

Mady Scholz

5108 W. Waveland Ave.

Chicago, 111.

. . . Now there is an official Three Stooges
Fan Club of America. Dues are 50f a year.
You’ll receive a membership card and two
autographed pictures of the very wonderful
Three Stooges.

Sharon Harp

R. #1

Aubrey, Texas

. . . Edd Jones is my
name. What’s yours?
Anyone interested in
writing me? I’m 5'11"
and I weigh 170 pounds
and would love a pen pal.
Edd Jones
809 North Beech
Roswell. N. M.

. . . We d like to have some new members
for our Bing Crosby fan club. It’s now
going into its 24th year and we’re very,
very proud of this.

Rena Albanesi
128 Kimball Terrace
Yonkers 4, N. Y.

. . . I would like to write to someone who
is interested in Phyllis Kirk, Christopher
Lee and acting in general. I’m 14 and a
freshman in Jr. High School.

Donna Blankenship
2364 St. James Ave.
Cincinnati 6, Ohio

. . . Anyone interested in stamp collecting?
I live in New Jersey and will trade stamps
for other stamps from different places.

Sharon Duimstra
Hainesburg, N. J.

... I am 19 years old and
would like to correspond
with any girls from 17
to 19, especially those
interested in pop music,
radio and television and
Photoplay magazine.

Loh Boon Leng
13 Bangkok Lane
City of Georgetown
Penang, Malaya

Need members for a fan club? Want a pen pal?
Like to exchange fads? Write: Confidentially,
Photoplay, 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N.Y.

Continued

.lllllllllllllllllllllHIIIIIHIllinillllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllJIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIItllllllll

~llllllllll|.I2lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||l||l||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||(|||||||||||||||||||||lll|||||IMIIIIIII|||||||||||||MIIII |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||llllllllllll||||||||||||||||lllllll8IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMaillllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMl~

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The new biggest-ever summer issue of
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continued,

DEAR MISS PAIN:

I tried to hold off writing you, hut I just
couldn’t wait any longer. My problem is a
guy named Bob. I would like to know if
he likes me, but I sure don’t want to ask
him. Boh is one of the most popular boys
in school so you can imagine my surprise
when he came up to me and introduced
himself. From then on, he kept talking to
me and saying “Hi.” Just this last week,
he has been coming to each of my classes
and walking down the hall with me. When
you’re reading this, would you try to fig-
ure out if he likes me? Thank you.

Carrie

Detroit, Mich.

Dear Carrie:

You’re just modest!

DEAR EDITOR:

I went steady with a very nice boy for six
months and we broke up to see what free-
dom would be like. He asks me out occa-
sionally but I’d like to know how I could
get him to ask me to go steady again. I’ve
had enough of freedom!

Hoping

Southwick, Mass.

Dear Hopinc:

Ask him if he has!

DEAR MISS PAIN:

I am fourteen and I like a boy who is
twenty. He works next door and I think
he likes me. I’m dying to go to our school
football game with him. I’m not allowed
to go out in a car with a hoy hut I am
allowed to meet them there. What can I
do to get him to ask me?

Lynda

Youngstown, Ohio

Dear Lynda:

Not much. It’s up to him.

<1^ DEAR EDITOR:

I don’t know what to do. Three boys have
asked me to be their tennis partners at
the club this summer. One of them is a
very good friend, but asked me last. An-
other is lots of fun and the other is real
cute. I’d be most grateful if you could
tell me which one to choose.

Kathy
San Diego

Dear Kathy:

First come, first served.

P.S. Look for your letters here every month.
We're sorry they can't be answered personally.

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THROUGH RESEARCH

. . . A BETTER PRODUCT

For fuller reviews see Photoplay for the months
indicated. For full reviews this month, see
page 20. (a — adult f — family)

BABETTE GOES TO W AR— Columbia ; Cine-
maSeope, Eastman Color: Smart suspense com-
edy stars Brigitte Bardot (fully dressed!) as a
lovable French girl who blunders into the un-
derground in Occupied France, while Nazis
think she’s on their side. (A) April

BRAMBLE BUSH. THE— Warners: Those
naughty New England towns! In his home
burg, doctor Richard Burton finds an amazing
(if unconvincing) variety of scandals. Barbara
Rush and Angie Dickinson are two of the peo-
ple involved. (A) March

CHANCE MEETING — Paramount: Slick guess-
ing game in the neat British tradition finds
detective Stanley Baker checking on an artist
(Hardy Kruger) accused of murdering his mis-
tress (Mieheline Presle). (A) April

DOG OF FLANDERS, A — 20th; CinemaScope,
De Luxe Color: David Ladd’s an appealing or-
phan boy in this quaintly charming version of
the children's classic, with Theodore Bikel as
a gruff but friendly painter. Real Dutch locales
add atmosphere. (F) April

GAZEBO, THE — M-G-M. CinemaScope: Gabby
but funny farce. Glenn Ford decides to plant
a dead blackmailer under the little backyard
pavilion (yep, the gazebo) wife Debbie Reyn-
olds bought. (F) March

GENE KRUPA STORY, THE— Columbia :
Plentiful jazz and eager young players liven
up a routine biography. Sal Mineo works hard
as Krupa. but Jimmy Darren comes off better
as his pal. Susan Kohner’s the gal. (A) March

GUNS OF THE TIMBERLAND— Warners,
Technicolor: Frankie Avalon makes a pleasing
movie debut opposite Alana Ladd in a lively
action yarn about rancher Jeanne Crain’s war
with logger Alan Ladd. (F) April

HOME FROM THE HILL— M-G-M; Cinema-
Scope. Metrocolor: Unusual, emotion-loaded
drama of a tangled Southern family, with Bob
Mitchum and Eleanor Parker as married an-
tagonists. Three talented young players —
George Peppard, George Hamilton, Luana Pat-
ten— stand out in a strange, pathetic triangle.
(A) April

LAST VOYAGE, THE— M-G-M. Metrocolor:
Tension so taut you can hardly stand it! As Bob
Stack tries to free Dorothy Malone from wreck-
age on a sinking liner. Captain George Sanders
fumbles his job. (F) April

ON THE BEACH — U.A.: Frightening real-
istic picture of 1964, intended to scare us into
thinking — and action. In Australia, Ava Gard-
ner, Gregory Peck, Fred Astaire, Tony Perkins,
Donna Anderson await the radio-active doom
that’s hit everyone else. (F) January

ONCE MORE, WITH FEELING— Columbia.
Technicolor: Nutty comedy rescued from its
talkiness by two dazzling personalities. Yul
Brynner’s a madly temperamental orchestra
conductor — long hair! — and the late Kay Ken-
dall is entrancing as his wife. (A) April

OUR MAN IN HAVANA— Columbia, Cinema-
Scope: Spy melodramas and the British Secret
Service are kidded by such experts as Noel
Coward (an agent) and Alec Guinness (the
mild salesman drafted to snoop). (F) March

RISE AND FALL OF LEGS DIAMOND, THE
— Warners: Ray Danton’s behavior as the old-
time gangster is so outrageous that at first it's
funny. Then the picture settles down to stand-
ard shoot-'em-up stuff. (A) April

SEVEN THIEVES — 20th, CinemaScope: Fasci-
nating “perfect crime” tale. Mild-mannered
Edward G. Robinson plans to rob the vault at
the Monte Carlo Casino, with Rod Steiger and
Joan Collins in his shady crew. (A) April

SINK THE BISMARCK!— 20th, CinemaScope:
Suspenseful, fact-based story of the desperate
British effort to find and destroy ihe Nazis’
mightiest ship. Navy officer Kenneth More
guides the operation from headquarters, with
Wren Dana Wynter. (F) April

STORY ON PAGE ONE. THE— 20th, Cinema-
Scope: Realistic courtroom drama, well-acted
by Rita Hayworth, Gig Young (on trial for
murder), Tony Franciosa (their lawyer), Mil-
dred Dunnock (Gig’s Mom). (A) March

SUDDENLY, LAST SUMMER— Columbia:
Highbrow horror movie gives Liz Taylor a
powerful role as a girl put into a mental hos-
pital for knowing too much about Katharine
Hepburn's dead son. Doctor Monty Clift slowly
unearths the shocking truth. (A) March

TAKE A GIANT STEP— IJ. A.: In a splendid
acting debut, singer Johnny Nash is a boy of
sixteen, a Negro in a white town, still facing
universal troubles as he takes the step from
adolescence to maturity. (A) October

3RD VOICE, THE — 20th, CinemaScope:
Smooth, ironically tough thriller. Laraine Day
kills her faithless lover, after training adven-
turer Edmond O'Brien to impersonate him.
Julie London’s in on surprise finish. (A) April

TOBY TYLER — Buena Vista, Technicolor:
Chunky Kevin Corcoran's a charmer as a farm
boy who runs away with a small circus, back
in the 1880’s, and discovers show biz is hard
work, as well as fun. (F) April

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m-g-m; cinemascope,

METROCOLOR

Please Don’t Eat the Daisies

Let s drop in on some nice people, just the kind of family
you’d want for next-door neighbors . . . well, maybe. Doris
Day’s a darling, as good-looking and good-humored as she
was in the “Pillow Talk performance that won her Photo-
play’s Gold Medal. But those three angel-faced little boys!
Daisy-eating is only the mildest of the stunts they think up.
And David Niven, as their father, seems to be a decent sort
(Look how comfy he and Doris are at left top picture)
— unless you happened to be in show business, then you’d
call him a monster, for he’s a New York theater critic. The
picture’s title comes from the best-seller in which Jean Kerr
told all about her life with critic Walter and their children.
She may not recognize herself and her family in this movie
frolic, especially when David’s feud with Janis Paige, a
curvy actress, turns into a romantic chase. But Mrs. Kerr
couldn’t help joining the rest of us in chuckling. family

K t AM MICHAEL TODD. JR.; TODD COLOR,

scent oj IVIystery new Todd process, smell-o-vision

Sniff or don’t sniff, as you please. Whether or not you
catch all the scents wafted into the theater air by “Glorious
Smell-O-Vision !,” you’ll enjoy every minute of this gorgeous,
cheerful whodunit. Mike Todd Jr. is trying the same contra-
dictory trick that his late father pulled off in “Around the
World in 80 Days”: making a big spectacle that nobody’s sup-
posed to take too seriously. Junior’s version is a little more
modest; we’re just going around Spain in a couple of days,
but the scenery’s overwhelming, and there’s a laugh a mile.
Instead of Niven and Cantinflas, we have another very proper
young Englishman ( Denholm Elliott ) and his rowdy taxi-
driver (Peter Lorre), trying to save a blond heiress from
getting murdered. And this is one picture where the warn-
ing. “Don’t tell the ending,” goes double. It’s a real sur-
prise, just see for yourself. family

Heller W ith a Gnn TECHNICOLOR

Believe it or not. here’s something new in westerns. An
adventure yarn with fine flashes of humor, it tells what it
was like to be part of a traveling theatrical troupe in those
wide-open days. Anthony Quinn bosses the troupe — and
what a troupe! Sophia Loren, as the European star with a
roving eye, gives one of her best performances so far, and
Margaret O’Brien, as the ingenue, will surprise you with her
flair for comedy. Eileen Heckart. as Margaret’s actress-
mother. and Steve Forrest, as a trigger-happy badman, help
make this a movie you’ll really applaud. ( See Margaret,
Eileen, Tony and Sophia at left, bottom.) And while you’re
at it. don’t forget director George Cukor. He’s the man re-
sponsible for the stunning color photography and for the
many details that make this one of the most authentic
westerns ever. adult

( continued )

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MOVIES continued

JANE HUGHES, Junior, Clarke High
School, East Meadow, L. I.,N.Y., says:
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Tall Story WARNERS

When Tony Perkins stands there,
tall, crewcut and skinny, in his bas-
ketball uniform, his Adam’s-apple
gulping and his heart pounding at
the man-trap he’s caught in, there’s
not much a girl can do but melt.
Jane Fonda (Henry’s real-life daugh-
ter ) makes her debut as the coed
who’s set the trap, and watch out!
She should have the same effect on
your date. But don’t worry about
his paying too much attention to her.
Both of you will be too busy laugh-
ing at Ray Walston and Marc Con-
nelly, a pair of profs with the old-
fashioned notion that getting an edu-
cation is almost as important as win-
ning the season’s big basketball
game. Tony and Jane have some
good chances at comedy, too, es-
pecially during a zany love scene in
a shower. adult

Man on a String Columbia

Don’t go to this movie alone or
you may feel a little uneasy, as
though someone were watching you,
walking home. And if you turn
around, you won’t be able to see him
— at least not this kind of spy, be-
cause you’ve just found out how
many ways there really are to spy
on someone — closed circuit TV, for
instance. And if this look at the
ins-and-outs of espionage seems al-
most unbelievable, it’s also true. The
movie’s based in large part on the
real-life experiences of Boris Mor-
ros, a movie producer who, for ten
years, was a double-agent for the
U.S. and the Russians. Ernest Borg-
nine, as the man on a string, and
Colleen Dewhurst, as a charming but
deadly spy, are excellent at building
this terrific suspense film. family

The Big Chief continental;

DIALOCUE IN FRENCH, TITLES IN ENGLISH

They’ve added laughs that even the
author didn’t know were there, just
by moving 0. Henry’s famous story
“The Ransom of Red Chief” across
the ocean to France. And what’s even
better, the fun’s in what you see
rather than in what you read in the
subtitles. As a pair of amateur kid-
nappers, Fernandel and Gino Cervi
have the kind of faces that, we think,
even look funny when they’re at
sleep, but when they start twist-

ing them into reactions to the mad-
cap adventures that befall them in
this story, look out! It’s side-split-
ting! The new young boy, Papouf,
who plays the rich child Fernandel
and Gino kidnap and can’t give back,
is someone we hope we’ll be seeing
lots more of.

FAMILY

Visit to a Small Planet PARAMOUNT;

VISTAVISION

Imagine Jerry Lewis with a flying
saucer to whiz around in and super-
human powers to show off! Unnerv-
ing idea, isn’t it? But don’t worry
— when Jerry drops in on us from
his home in outer space, all he uses
those powers for is a batch of tricks
that are more funny than frighten-
ing. We can thank the wizards be-
hind the camera and in the film lab
for most of the laughs. When Jerry
isn’t playing tricks, he’s busy study-
ing Joan Blackman and Earl Holli-
man. They’re in love, and out where
Jerry comes from everybody’s much
too advanced for such simple-minded
stuff as kissing. Everybody, that is,
except Jerry. He’s backward — but
willing to learn and the gags keep the
picture moving. family

The Wind Cannot Read RAfiK; 20th;

EASTMAN COLOR

The title comes from a Japanese
poem: “Though on the sign it is
written, ‘Do not pluck these blos-
soms,’ It is useless against the wind.
Which cannot read.” Unfortunately,
the love story for which this is a
parable doesn’t quite live up to the
poem’s beauty — or brevity. Dirk Bo-
garde, as an RAF pilot, is handsome
and winning enough, and Yoko Tani
is delicate and graceful as the Jap-
anese girl he loves in wartime India.
It’s just that their story moves so
slowly, although there is an advan-
tage even to this for, when the plot
stops, it usually pauses in front of a
strikingly colorful Indian bazaar or
the fabulous Taj Mahal. adult

Too Soon to Love u.i

You’ve seen most of these faces in
smaller roles on TV, but you may
not have known their names — up un-
til now. But these anonymous days
should be over now for Jennifer
West and Richard Evans, who turn
in real touching performances as
teenagers in trouble. The law is harsh

( continued )

Northam Warren: New York • Montreal • London • Paris • Cologne

• Stockholm • Madrid • Milan • P/o de Janeiro • Buenos Aires • Montevideo

Mrs. Jean Pierre Aumont says:

“More and more of my friends— in fact,
most smart, sophisticated Parisiennes
—depend on Odo-ro-no’s lasting pro-
tection to keep themselves personally
sweet and fresh.”

In Paris, as in most world fashion
capitals, Odo-ro-no is the largest sell-
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perspiration dampness and odor. And
new Odo-ro-no is so gentle to your
skin ... so safe for delicate fabrics.
Discover the excellence of Odo-ro-no
yourself — in cream, stick or spray.

Mrs. Jean Pierre Aumont , tvorld-famous beauty
and leading figure of Paris social circles— prof essionally
known as movie star Marisa Pavan.

did you know ODOROnO is the leading deodorant in Paris?

WHOEVER YOU ARE

YOU'RE IN THIS
PICTURE!

Because this tells of
youth’s challenge
to grown-ups who
don’t understand! ;/T

IT’S DICK CLARK’S FIRST BIG MOVIE ROLE... as a high school
teacher in love and in trouble. It’s the story of youth. ..every girl’s fears and
hopes. ..every boy’s dreams and drives... every parent’s joys and panics!

Columbia

Pictures

presents

CO-STARRING

Michael Callan -Tuesday Weld and Victoria Shaw

WITH Warren Berlinger • Roberta Shore

Screenplay by James Gunn • Based on a novel by John Farris
Produced by Jerry Bresler • Directed by Paul Wendkos
A Drexel Production

************** GUEST STARS ********

* James Darren • Duane Eddy and the Rebels

* Hear James Darren sing the title song “Because They’re Young”

Available on Colpix Records

Don’t miss the Academy Awards TV show April 4th. Check your local newspaper for time and station.

MOVIES continued

on them and so are their parents,
and it seems, for them, that the only
way out, maybe, is the abortionist.
Well-told and well-photographed, the
picture was produced, directed and
co-written by Richard Rush, who
didn’t have much money but made
talent a marvelous substitute. ADULT

Expresso Bongo continental

Pretty fresh, those British ! They’ve
taken a standard rock ’n’ roll movie
plot, put it in a London setting and
then kidded it to pieces. You know,
like the tough manager who isn’t
really suclr a bad guy. Or is he? Any-
how, now he’s Laurence Harvey, very
brash and dashing, in spite of a con-
fusing Cockney-Yiddisli-Oxford ac-
cent. His long-suffering girlfriend is
Sylvia Syms, as a soft-hearted strip-
per. And the wonder boy that Lau-
rence discovers could move right in
and give Rick and Bobby some com-
petition. Dreamy-faced Cliff Richard,
an English disc star who’s still in
his teens, has all the singing manner-
isms down pat. He can act, too! His
movie success story is fast, flashy and
funny. If it sometimes tries too hard
for yocks — well, it gets plenty, adult

The Snoi v Queen ui; eastman color

Russian movie-makers have been
caught in a mellow mood with this
Hans Christian Andersen fairytale,
told in animated cartoons that are
sometimes pretty creaky and some-
times charming. For its release in
this country (under our government’s
cultural-exchange agreement with the
U.S.S.R. ), it has been fitted out with
an American sound track. You’ll hear
the voices of Sandra Dee and Tommy
Kirk as the little sweethearts, and
Patty McCormack speaks for a rowdy
bandit girl who’s the cutest character
in the lot. Like our artists here, the
Soviet cartoonists seem to have some
trouble making the pretty people
pretty, but the funny and grotesque
characters are pretty convincing! Like
the title’s scary Queen, in her Far
North ice palace, who is a most re-
markable female menace. family

Musters of the Congo Jungle 20™ ;

CINEMASCOPE, DE LUXE COLOR

Special invitation to people who
( continued )

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MOVIES continued

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like to go adventuring in perfect
comfort: Here’s a fine chance to see
Africa from a safe theater seat. This
travelogue has a solid amount of
dignity and authenticity, with only a
small dash of the hokum you’d expect
from the title. When it’s telling us
about the land, in magnificent scenes,
Orson Welles’ rich voice handles the
commentary. And when it focuses on
the people, William Warfield (out-
standing Negro singer-actor) appro-
priately takes over, making this first
class vacation-at-your-theater adven-
ture. FAMILY

Kidnapped BUENA V,STA:

* r TECHNICOLOR

If adventure’s your dish, Walt
Disney knows just how to serve it up.
For this one, he’s picked Robert
Stevenson (a for-real descendent of
the author of this classic ) to direct a
first-rate cast in a tale that rambles
all over the grand, forbidding scenery
of the Scottish Highlands. Looks as
if James McArthur will come into
his own as a grownup actor — he’s
that good as a sturdy youngster who’s
being cheated out of his inheritance.
But it’s Peter Finch’s swashbuckling
that’ll win you. Backing the lost
cause of the Stuart kings, he’s a
fightin’ fool — and sometimes the ac-

cent goes on the second half of that
phrase, as Jim (below) discovers.
Even the villains have that nice touch
of the unexpected, mixing up romance
with humorous realism. family

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Connie’s neighbors are talking.

'T' rouble for Connie: “I’m moving! ii
I’m selling my house and moving.”
Connie Stevens stormed on the “Ha-
waiian Eye” set. After Connie had
calmed down a bit, I learned the un-
happiness was brought on because
neighbors complained about her two
larger dogs. “What’s a little barking and
snapping at people, anyway?” Connie
demanded. At any rate, I received no
such treatment from “Hui,” her little
Yorkshire dog, when the two of us sat
down to get acquainted. And with Con-
nie and “Hui” wearing the same hairdo,
they do come in for their share of at-
tention.

Mailbox Corner: A card from Mari-
lyn Monroe promises I’ll be seeing
more of her in the future. I can tell
Marilyn her studio would be thrilled to
see more of her right now. The way this
one is holding up production on “Let’s
Make Love” is ulcer-making. . . . Fabian
writes from his “High Time” location
in Stockton. California: “Dear Miss
Hamilton: Just a few lines to thank you
for the wonderful mention in your
column. I called you when I was in
Los Angeles but you weren’t in. I hope
to see you when I get back. Love,
Fabian.” Fabe always writes his notes
in longhand on grey paper with a red
banner in the corner. On the banner is
a huge F. In my case it could stand for
Fan . . . Incidentally, I was so impressed
with Joanne Rabalia’s tribute to Fabe
in her recent letter, I think he should
know about it. So hold everything,
Joanne. . . . Vivian Nilan and June
Poirier ask for more stories and pic-
tures of yesterday’s stars. “I urge your
editors to aim their articles toward
women over the teenage level,” writes
Miss Poirier. How do you feel about it? ?

Lunch at the Studio: Roger Smith ambled over to my
table in Warner Brothers’ Green Room and, with his slow,
easy smile, asked, “Mind if I join you for lunch?” He seemed
unconcerned over those legal suits and counter-suits involv-
ing his recent accident. Next came Tony Eisley of the
“Hawaiian Eye” show to join our table, which suddenly be-
came a lively gathering place for
the great and famous of TV. Both
“Maverick” boys, Jack Kelly and
James Garner, stopped by for a
chat. Kelly, a truly big, handsome
man, looked a bit sheepish when I
teased him about loitering near
the cookie counter at McDaniels’

Market. “You caught me,” he
grinned. “You know, I spend half
my free time there.” Roger
Moore, in his “Alaskan” furs, in-
vited me to visit his set later on.

Since Warners’ announced that
Roger may inherit Errol Flynn’s
swashbuckling roles, the hand-
some Englishman has been kidded
to death about “the new Errol
Flynn” bit. . . . And quite the hap-
piest bridegroom I ever met is

handsome Van Williams of the “Bourbon Street” series. “I
really have a wonderful girl,” he beamed. And guess where
he met his Vicki Richards? On the beach near Santa
Monica, no less. Van, by the way, is the lad who has those
priceless locker room scenes with Jane Fonda and Tony
Perkins in “Tall Story.” . . . And, of course, the entire
dining room let out a whoop of laughter when Ty Hardin
was paged with the message, “Ty Hardin, please report to
your ‘Bronco’ set.” It seems the studio is forever losing Ty,
who wanders off the set between scenes to play cards on a
neighboring sound stage or ride his horse around the lot.

Here Comes the Bride: “Just the person I need,” Jill St.
John greeted me as I walked into Amelia Grey’s exclusive
Beverly Hills shop. “I’m trousseau shopping and I can’t
decide between these two coats. This one I’ve wanted for a
long time,” said Jill, posing in a reversible brown wool. “It
was too expensive before but now it’s been reduced to half
price.” Well, the upshot was that Jill — yep, you guessed it —
bought both coats.

Snapper: That “Ocean’s 11” cast, including Pete Law-
ford, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr., were rather
surprised at Frank Sinatra’s serious crush on Juliette
Prowse, who visited the actor on their Las Vegas location.
One member of the cast tells me Frank has really flipped for
her. “It’s his biggest crush since Ava Gardner,” I was told.

It’s not. the fans who surprise Pete; it’s his friend that he can’t get over.

Photoplay Gives
Your Awards: Troy
Donahue took every-
thing in stride at the
Photoplay Award ses-
sion on the Bob Hope
TV show, but Millie
Perkins, as usual,
seemed shy. Both Troy
and Millie were just
thrilled at being voted
the Most Promising
Newcomers. Producer
Ross Hunter, whose
“Pillow Talk” was your
favorite picture, flew Troy was thrilled; Millie, shy.
in from New York es-
pecially for this. Tony Randall, cited for his work in
“Pillow Talk,” had us in stitches. Gina Lollobrigida, the
Most Popular Foreign Star, was just lovely. ( Continued )

Shelley and Tony made up — again.

Marlon s spending most of his time with
France, but doesn't look too happy about it.

These Fine Young Americans: No one
can tell me the majority of young people in
show business aren’t the best. And the most
thoughtful. For instance, Johnny Mathis
has followed the footsteps of Sal Mineo,

Bohhy Darin, Fahian and Paul Anka,
in buying a home for his parents. And on
his mother’s birthday. Fabian gathered his pals to help him
sing “Happy Birthday” over the telephone. Mrs. Forte
couldn’t have been more thrilled. ... A letter from Mrs. Kirk
Johnson Jr. of Midland, Texas, tells me of the wonderful work
done by our own Ben Cooper and his fiancee Pamela Ray-
mond. along with such young hopefuls as Beverly Garland,
Eddie Platt and Eddie Carroll, in their charity drive
down there. “They worked seventeen hours straight — for
free,” writes the lovely Mrs. Johnson, “and raised close to
$30,000. All West Texas fell madly in love with them.” So,
let’s give a big hand to Hollywood’s young people. To my
notion, they deserve it. . . . That art-objects shop Tab
Hunter proposes to open soon, should be the best patronized
shop in town. Especially by feminine fans of the handsome
Tab. On his recent tour of the Orient, the actor picked up
hundreds of beautiful art accessories to stock his shelves. I
wonder if Tab will take time off from his beloved horses to
do a little selling himself? If so, I’m his first customer! . . .
Kim Novak flew to the carnival in Rio and, according to
reports, set the Brazilians on their ear.

The Brando Ring-A-
Ding: To be in love with
Marlon Brando can be

anything but a many-splen-
dored-thing, as France
Nuyen discovered. Seems
France, who was co-star-
ring with Bill Holden in
“The World of Susie
Wong,” locationed in Hong Kong and London, heard ru-
mors of Marlon’s attentions to Barbara Luna in Holly-
wood and went on a “compulsive eating” jag. Result — pro-
ducer Ray Stark took one look at the added poundage and
boom! — France was out and on her way to Marlon, who
looked anything but hysterically happy. To add to the
three-ring circus of love, Miss Luna, also a Eurasian beauty,
announced to the newspapers. “I’m not in love with Marlon,
even though he’s the most charming man I ever met.” In
the meantime, ex-wife Anna Kashfi took off to a hospital,
emotionally and physically spent. Oh well, that’s love.

1 bis-And-That : One couple I can’t make out is Tony
Franciosa and Shelley Winters. One minute Tony is
reportedly shouting at Shelley over a set telephone to keep
out of his life and, that same evening, they’re out, arm in
arm. house-hunting together. Frankly, it’s too much for
me. . . . Elvis’ return, promises to be the event of the year.

And with the de-
cline of rock ’n’ roll,
I have no doubt
he’ll adjust to the
new era of ballads.

Good News Depart-
ment : The Efrem
Zimbalists celebrated
their fourth wedding an-
niversary. Friends hope
they make it to their
forty-fourth — still to-
gether. . . . Russ Tam-
blyn, out of the Army,
now raring to go ahead
with his career. . . .

Saw Dana Wynter’s
little baby, Mark Regan
Bautzer. What a boy!

Don’t know who he looks
like, though, Dana or his proud pop, Greg Bautzer. When
Dana left the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital, ready to take the
baby home, waiting outside for her was a brand new station
wagon — a gift from Greg. She was so excited, she almost
dropped the baby. Little Mark Regan is the couple’s first child.

Dana and Mark were surprised.

INSIDE

continued

In My Opinion: It’s about time to leave off those slam-
bang attacks against Liz Taylor. The constant rumors sug-
gesting growing friction between her and Eddie Fisher
must be awfully hard to bear. So let’s give the two a chance
to live their own lives and mind our own stores, shall we?

. . . Those printed statements decrying Ava Gardner’s
loss of beauty in the movie “On The Beach” were needlessly
cruel. After all, as Ava says, she was playing the role of an
alcoholic and deliberately tried to look the part. So, let’s be
kind enough to reserve judgment and give the gal a break.
. . . In my opinion, Deborah Kerr may be paying too high
a price for love. After hearing a first hand report of
Deborah’s recent loving reunion with her two daughters in

London, both wards of
ihe British crown, I won-
der if marriage to Peter
Viertel can make up lor
this loss? In the long run,
that is? ? ? ? I honestly
believe we’ll be talking
about a whole new group
of stars within the year.
Among them will he
Juliette Greco, Angie
Dickenson, Jane Fon-
da, Yves Montand, Lu-
ana Patten, George
Hamilton, George Pep-
pard and Troy Dona-
hue. And what’s more. I
Deborah's paying too high. believe Sandra Dee will

reach top stardom as a
star with the beauty of Turner and glamor of Crawford.

Love And Things: It was a dreary Monday morning when
the phone rang and a familiar voice said, “Sara Hamilton, this
is George.” “George who?” I asked. “George Hamilton,”
he said. And the sensational young star of “Home From the
Hill” talked freely of his crush on Susan Koliner. He’d met
Susan on their “All the Fine Young Cannibals” movie and
liked her at once. “She’s the most wonderful girl I ever met,”
he confided. “She’s difficult to get to know, which I like in a
girl. She may be emotional and high strung, too, but Susan is
not all on the surface.” He gave a rather shy little laugh. “I
guess you can see I’m crazy about her.” . . . Chatted with
Cornel Wihle and his wife Jean Wallace at the Joan
Fontaine cocktail party and re-discovered how happy this
handsome couple is in their seven-year marriage. Quite
frankly, they both admitted to hot tempers. “But beneath our
every argument,” Cornel said, “there’s always the under-
lying awareness that Jean prefers me to any other man.”
. . . The Gregory Peeks were so relaxed and amusing at
the farewell dinner given them by Alan and Sue Ladd, I
regretted their departure to Greece for the movie “Guns of
Navarone.” And when both Greg and Veronique said. “Good-
bye Sara, we’ll see you in September,” I realized how deeply
our town will miss the handsome Pecks. . . . And at the
Screen Directors Guild dinner, I saw such happily married
couples as the Fred MacMurrays (she’s June Haver),
the Robert Youngs and Gene Raymond and Jeanette
MacDonald.

Fred MacMurray and June
haven't changed one bit.

At directors' dinner, Jeanette and Gene with Bob Taylor.

Gardner McKay finds it easy to forget with Maria Cooper.

Up-To-Date: Gardner McKay is raging at 20th for sign-
ing Ron Ely as his alternate, beginning next season. They
know there is absolutely no love lost between the two boys.
. . . Before Richard Quine took off for Europe, he pre-
sented Kim Novak with a Great Dane dog. Maybe the Dane
will replace Richard in Kim’s heart? . . . Friends concerned
over Tuesday Weld’s moods of depression, may now relax.
Tuesday’s found a new interest in Richard Beymer, who
shares a role with her in “High Time.” Maybe Tuesday’s
“blues” were caused by the criticism of her antics in public.
If so, young Beymer ( remember him in “The Diary of Anne
Frank”?) may be able to lend this teenager the encourage-
ment she needs. . . . Vera Miles planed to Mexico for a
quickie divorce from husband Gordon Scott. ( Continued )

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continued

Terry Moore may retire
from the screen after the
birth of her first child
next August. Terry is very
happy these days as Mrs.

Stuart Kramer. . . . They

call 20th the “Paradise” lot with such contract players as Elena Eden, Chana
Eden, Barbara Eden and Eve Eden roaming the lot. Too bad they’s no “Adam”
under contract. . . . Dorothy Provine walked out on her escort Gustavo Rojo
when the Spanish actor persisted in table hopping at Giro’s. Weary of sitting alone,
Dorothy called a cab and went home. OLE! ! The Keenan Wynns welcomed their
third daughter, Miss Emily; the Jean Pierre Aumonts greeted their little son,
Patrick; and the Rod Steigers were thrilled with their beautiful Ann Justine. . . .
Rumors still have Yul Brynner wedding the youthful Doris Ivliner after his

divorce from Virginia Gilmore.
Yul and Doris were seen every-
where in Europe. . . . Little did
Anne Francis realize the attrac-
tive man peering into her aching
tooth would one day be her hus-
band. On a spur-of-the-moment
decision Anne and Dr. Robert
Abeloff decided to become man
and wife and have been happy
ever since. . . . Before Anne
Baxter took off for that Austra-
lian sheep ranch with her bride-
groom. Randolph Galt, she di-
rected a few well chosen barbs at
actors who have become too in-
volved with the money-end of the
business. “Sometimes, on a movie
set, I have the feeling I’m the
only person there who cares what
happens.” It’s m\ opinion Anne
was never the same after her divorce from John Hodiak, who died so soon after
with a heart seizure. That divorce, I believe. Anne very much regretted. Perhaps
Eate has now given her a new chance for happiness. I certainly hope so. The
Crosby clan gathered together at Bing and Kathy’s home for the wedding recep-
tion of Lindsay and his bride, Barbara Fredrickson, and the following day,
gathered again for the birthday of Kate Crosby, mother of Bing and Bob and
grandmother of the boys. Bing, proud as punch, came downstairs carrying his
small daughter, Mary Frances, in his arms. “Isn't she a beauty?” he beamed.
“Notice her dainty hands.” And the way Bing looked at his first daughter, was
really touching. Anyway, now that peace has been established among the Crosbys,
let’s hope that harmony prevails, for a while, at least. . . . Dick Powell sat in his
comfortable living room watching TV, one recent Sunday afternoon, when firemen
suddenly appeared trailing a bedraggled Ricky by the hand. Seems the Powells’
nine-year-old son had climbed down a steep hillside near their Canyon home and
found himself trapped on a ledge. Both firemen and policemen came to his rescue
while Dick sat on, unaware of the furor outside. June Allyson all but fainted when
she heard the news of her son’s escapade. . . . Ernie Kovacs tells of the young
fan who met up with him in Disneyland. Thrusting her camera into the hands of
a passerby, the fan begged the stranger to snap her picture with the famous
Kovacs. “And don’t you want his picture, too?” Ernie asked. “Naw, he’s nobody.”
the fan said. “L just want you.” And the “Mr. Nobody,” who was only Walt
Disney himself, obligingly snapped the picture and, with a wink at Ernie,
strolled away.

New chance for Anne , Katrina, Randolph.

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Just try to dream up a
guest list to match this one! The warm humor of Arthur Godfrey, the witty con-
versation of Art Linkletter and Garry Moore, the songs of Bing Crosby and
Rosemary Clooney. You can have them drop in every weekday-on CBS Radio-
for the friendliest two hours in town. Make it a habit to brighten your day, every
day, with the most enjoyable personalities in all radio. It’s the kind of entertaining
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come along with us to-

THE PARTY HOLLYWOOD
WILL NEVER FORGET

Martha Hyer to Ross Hunter: “The invitation did say tonight, didn’t it?”

is hands

Dinah to Dino

This was just about the gassiest party
Hollywood has seen yet, with Cadillacs and
motor scooters lining Sunset, stars galore
crowding the sidewalks, trying to get in. A
strictly standing-room only affair. . . . Zsa
Zsa Gabor came running over to my table.
“Fabian and I are just friends, darling,”
she whispered. “There’s no wedding date
set.” . . . And speaking of Fabian, producer
Jerry Wald told me he’s thinking of star-
ring Fabe in his next big budget film, “The
Brothers Karamazov Meet Gidget.” . . .
Heard Pat Boone’s up for a picture oppo-
site Brigitte Bardot. Pat promised me he
won’t look. .... I found out it isn’t true
that Kookie’s writing his autobiography,
“Warners Byrnes Me Up.” Nor is it true
Warners is planning a new series with
Efrem Zimbalist and Roger Smith, to
be called, “That’s the Way the Kookie
Crumbles.” . . . Carol Lynley arrived late ;
she said she learned a lot about Ireland
from Tuesday Weld. ... For some reason,
nobody could find Loretta Young after
her blue chiffon dress caught in the revolv-

Marge to husband Gower Champion: “ Don’t
be jealous, he's only trying to be helpful .”

Louis Jourdan to wife: “ Repeat after me: Maurice Che-
valier was not the male lead in ‘ Gigi ,’ Maurice . . .

Mel Ferrer: “So that’s what a purple people eater looks like!”

Lucille Ball to Danny Thomas: CEN-
SORED CENSORED CENSORED

Paul Newman to wife Joanne: “/
hate ostentation, don’t you, old chap?”

ing lobby door. Guess that’s not
the kind of door she’s used to on
TV. . . . Waved to Joan Craw-
ford, who was busily sipping a
Coke — no, it must have been a
Pepsi. . . . Peter Lawford told
me that pal Dean Martin’s plat-
ter, “I Get Along Without You
Very Well,” dedicated to you
know who, is hitting high on the
top ten. . . . Frankie Avalon
startled all of us when he ad-
mitted he couldn’t sing a note.
The voice you hear really belongs
to Frank Sinatra, who travels

with him and stays hidden be-
hind the curtain I understand,

after the embarrassment of losing
three court trials in a row on the
“Perry Mason Show,” Raymond
Burr is now taking night courses
in law under the fictitious name
of “Jerry Geisler.” ... I couldn’t
figure out what Janet and Tony
were whispering about. But just
as I was going to ask them,
someone asked me, in a whisper,

“Did you know Liz calls
Debbie 4 times a day?”

For my exclusive interview with Debbie, turn to page 71

BRIGITTE BARDOT reached out
for her son Nicolas. “To think I
didn’t want him,” she said to her-
self. She had been so afraid. . . .

Heavy storm clouds had gathered
that afternoon, almost as a warning,
Brigitte couldn’t help feeling, of
things to come. They had swept
angrily across the sky bringing sub-
zero temperatures and ice to the
narrow Parisian street beneath the
duplex apartment where she sat with
her husband, Jacques, both of them
nervous and apprehensive about the
coming birth of their first child.

Awkwardly perched on a dark
green couch in one corner of their
living room, ( Continued on page 86)

■Jim.

aw*

. h-v

igf§

m w

■V

W Jjt ^ *

- ^pr. * v

!G5r-, ^

WHAT MAKES A FELLOW CALL AGAIN

what I learned about men

since last Monday

I used to think that, if the men from Mars landed,
they couldn’t be any harder to understand than
earth men. That’s how it used to be. But not now.
No more moans, no more groans, no more silent
telephones for me. ( Continued on page 77)

by ANNETTE FUNICELLO

as told to CHARLOTTE BARCLAY

ANNETTE:

marries

The
wedding
went beautifully
...yet something

seemed
horribly wrong

• James Darren stood next to his
brother, Johnny, by the tapestry-
covered altar and waited in the
hushed stillness of Our Lady Chapel
in St. Patrick’s Cathedral on New
York’s Fifth Avenue. He was aware
that, behind him, in the oak pews,
were his mother and grandfather
and a few of his close friends. Al-
though he appeared outwardly calm,
his heart was pounding with fear.
He felt tense and nervous, for, in
the quiet of the chapel, he suddenly
became acutely aware of the great
step he was taking. Up until then,
he had been quite confident of him-
self, and yet . . .

Suddenly the rich full notes of
organ music started to swell through
the church and, from behind him,
without turning, he could hear the
shuffle of feet as the guests stood up.
Then he heard a murmur and he
knew Evy must have entered the
chapel. Turning around, just slight-
ly, to see his bride, he found himself
gasping, for she seemed more beau-
tiful than ever before in her ivory
silk wedding dress, her lace cap veil
and the palest makeup. She was
walking along on the arm of his
father. Her own father was in Den-
mark and so they had asked his to
give her away. Slowly, her dress
rustling just slightly as she walked,
she made ( Continued on page 96)

by GEORGE CHRISTY

When you re the one who’s being married, Frankie thought, you’re out-of-the-world and at the same time really in it

Thirty-six hours before the cere-
mony, it looked as if Frankie
might not even get to the wedding.
The Avallone family, in Phila-
delphia, tried to pretend to each
other that the disappointment
didn’t matter, but it was no use.
If Frankie were really going to be
delayed in California, then what
would they say to the guests? One
by one, the family was drawn to
Frankie’s big front bedroom, as if
they couldn’t believe he wasn’t
there. They stood silently, in the
doorway, staring at Frankie’s
white ( Continued on page 98)

Driving off after the wedding, he had no idea they’d meet photographers.

It was hard to tell her what he felt, but Frankie knew she’d understand.

by JIM HOFFMAN

The gang — Dolores Hart, Molly Bee, Darryl and Dwayne

“It’s true,” laughed Dolores Hart. “Every word
of it.” Darryl Hickman just grinned sheepishly
as the woman read his handwriting. For once,
his brother Dwayne was silent. He was next.

“Wait till we tell Pamela,” Molly Bee teased,
and Darryl wondered what his new bride would
think. Could someone learn all those secrets
just from handwriting? The answer’s yes.

What makes Tuesday act that way? Is Fabian
heading for trouble? What does Debbie really
feel? “It’s all in the way they write,” says graph-
ologist Rosa Rosella. Turn the page and see.

If you write like Sandra Dee, says Miss Rosella, you have
a developed mind, a disciplined and mature personality

far beyond your years. Sandra’s
small regular script reflects her
quick mind and also her power
of concentration. The even base
line shows emotional balance.
The regularity and forward slant
reveal the consistent effort and

Collect autographs? Singer Merv Griffin does. At Pent-
house Club, Rosa Rosella shows how they reveal secrets. reliability which she applies to

her work and to all responsibilities. She should overcome

her shyness and her insecurity because she ( Continued on page 76)

HOW MUCH OF YOURSELF IS SHOWING IN YOUR HANDWRITING?

Is your handwriting — or your boyfriend’s- — like any of the
stars’? Write six lines — with a regular pen — and then read on.
You’ll be surprised!

PRESSURE: Heavy broad strokes (like Kim’s and Frankie’sl
are a sign of strength but also a warning to restrain your
emotions and think twice. You have great vitality and energy
to help you through difficulty. Light pressure (like Debbie’s)
shows a strong sense of delicacy and refinement and a spirited
approach to life.

BASE LINE: An even base (horizontal) line (like Debbie’s)
shows you are emotionally stable and rarely lose control of a
situation. Your problem is learning to relax and be yourself.
But your demand for perfection often frustrates friends. If your
lines are wavy (like Kim’s and Fabian’s), your emotions are
changeable. Be careful not to waste your talents by lack of
direction. You are impulsive, so don’t act on first impressions.

SLANT : A backward slant (like Tuesday’s) means you have
strong inhibitions and feel the world is hostile to you. In self-
protection, you withdraw yourself and are then accused of
being aloof or secretive. Actually, you are extremely shy. A
forward slant shows confidence in the future. You have the
initiative and determination to achieve success. You are an
extrovert and, in cases of extreme forward slant, very sensitive.
If your letters are vertical, you are always in complete control
of yourself. Your mind dominates your emotions. You keep
your life tidy and pride yourself upon your self-sufficiency.
But you are so jealous of your independence that you might
by-pass love if it threatens your freedom.

CONNECTED LETTERS: If you write five or more letters
in a word without a break, you have a logical and analytical
mind. Emotion rarely wins an argument. Frequent discon-
nections between letters show social charm and intuition. Im-

portant decisions may be delayed for days while you wait for
inspiration (the source of your talent) to strike and guide you.

SPACING: Writing that flows smoothly with equal spaces
between letters and words (like Sandra’s) describes a logical,
precise person with maturity and social poise. Uneven spacing
shows you can be unpredictable, act without thought, and have
difficulty concentrating.

LINE DIRECTION: Lines sloping gently uphill, shows con-
fidence in facing new challenges and high goals. Lines that go
up sharply reflect an almost fanatical determination to succeed.
Lines going down at the end indicate you’re a person who is
easily discouraged, with little confidence in your abilities.

LOOPS: Long, slender loops on strokes above the line show
you are an idealist who believes that only intellectual and
spiritual things are important. Full-blown lower loops mean
you are romantic, but practical. You have a good business mind
but can lack the imagination to make the most of opportunities.

THE T-BAR: Crossing your T (T-bar) firmly on the stem
represents strength. You are forceful and have absolute self-
control which, coupled with talent, can only mean success.
Arching the bar downward means you take life too seriously.
A bar floating above the stem (see Tuesday’s) shows imagina-
tion and talent. The little hooks on the ends of Tuesday’s bar
indicate tenacity and a determination to get your own way.
But be careful of tantrums. A bar above the stem that is arched
downward symbolizes a desire for protection.

MARGINS: Even margins indicate culture, good taste, great
social tact, poise and a strong regard for neatness and order.
Narrow or irregular margins might mean a poor sense of
proportion but could also show great enthusiasm, as if you’re
so absorbed in what you’re doing that you disregard form.

The Efrem Zimbalists look
so happy now— but they looked the same way

just before Efrem walked out on Steffi

It seemed to Efrem, as he flung
his two old, battered suitcases
into the rear of his prized black
1931 Packard, that everything
had gone wrong that day. It was
no use going over the same things,
over and over again, with Steffi.
Besides, he was angry. And he
could never get anything straight-
ened out when he was mad. So,
instead of going back into the
living room where he’d left his
wife, he took one quick look at
the house, climbed dejectedly be-
hind the steering wheel and
started the engine. The tires

screeched as the car rounded the
driveway, a mournful sound in
the stillness of the late afternoon,
and then he drove on, out into the
bustle of the main street traffic.

He had no intention of coming
back, he told himself, staring
blankly ahead. Then, a lonely,
heart-sickening realization of
what he had done hit him . . . and
he felt like a character in a televi-
sion script. As if it were not he,
but Stu Bailey of “77 Sunset
Strip” who was saying out loud,
“I love my wife . . . but I’m leav-
ing her.” ( Continued on page 83 )

ever be sure?

by ANITA ALLEN

Susan Kohner whispered to George Hamilton :

“CAN YOU
KEEP MY SECRET?"

“If you cross your heart
and hope to die,

I’ll tell you the secret
I’ve never told anyone before.”

continued

“CAN YOU KEEP MY SECRET?”

Susan Kohner tucked her tan coat under her and
sat down on the soft mound of freshly cut grass the
gardener had left to be raked up later. She could, hid-
den by the big trees and thick shrubs, wait, without
being seen, for the car to reach the front entrance
of their home. Ever since she was a child, she could
remember coming to this secret place in the garden.
When she sat there, she used to think that she was
high enough to nearly reach heaven. Sometimes she
wrote poetry; other times she’d watch her brother
Poncho and his friends, hollering and whooping and
carrying on and she'd wonder, don’t boys ever get
tired of playing cowboys and Indians and taking
turns falling down dead?

She had forgotten about the poems until this week
when, for some reason, she took her notebooks down
from the closet shelf and began to read through them.
There was a poem she had written ten years before —
when she was twelve. It read:

“When I have felt the beating of an anxious heart
When I have found the meaning of a fond embrace
When I have gained the inner beauty of the soul
Then I shall know what love is . . .”

Was she in love? She pushed the thought out of
her mind, trying to concentrate, instead, on the script
by her side. She liked her part in it.

She heard the car approach even before she could
see it. It was funny — she thought — the first thing she
knew about George was that he drove around in a
big Rolls Royce. Someone had told her that it once
belonged to the King of ( Continued on page 101)

■ a '

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FOR VICI SHAW’S COMPLETE TRAVEL WARDROBE, SEE PAGE 64

SCHWAB’S DRUG STOR

SKOLSKY’S LOWDOWN

ON OFFBEAT HOLLYWOOD

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how to be IN when you go OUT in

WHAT TO WEAR TO: an offbeat club like The Roar-
ing 20’s; a beauty spree; TV city; Graunian’s Chinese.

WHAT TO WEAR TO: Wil Wright’s ice-cream par-
lor; shopping Olvera St.; sightseeing the stars’ homes.

THE WAY TO LOOK: Natural — as if you were Vici
Shaw and had husband Roger Smith to please. Vici
wears printed separates (they match reversible side of
suit jacket, page 59), dresses them up with hat, gloves.

THE WAY TO LOOK: Casual — as if you hadn’t spent
days looking for a straw hat to match your shoes. Here,
over suit skirt, a blouse looks different because it’s worn
out and belted. (Unbelted, it doubles as beach jacket.)

Hollywood- with an $87.41 wardrobe

WHAT TO WEAR TO: Dinner at Romanoff’s; star-
gazing at Dino’s; dancing at Moulin Rouge; premiering.

WHAT TO WEAR TO: farmers Market; Disneyland;
the pool at Beverly Hills Hotel: Aware Inn for yogurt.

THE WAY TO LOOK: Elegantly simple — as if you
planned that he notice you and not your dress. You’ll
always be right in chiffon, like Vici’s skirt, teamed here
with a silk blouse. For glamor: jet-black jewelry.

THE WAY TO LOOK: Tailored— as if it’s no accident
your shorts fit well and not obvious at all that your
sweater shows off your figure. For fun: desert boots.

FOR WHERE TO BUY THESE FASHIONS, TURN TO PAGE 95

SEE ROGER SMITH IN "77 SUNSET STRIP,” OVER ABC-TV. VICTORIA SHAW IS IN COLUMBIA’S "BECAUSE THEY’RE YOUNG" AND "l AIM AT THE STARS.”

I’d

go out
of my
way to
learn from
those I
admire

“ 1

7 ”

if I were JL

1 again

Doris Day has been my favorite movie star ever since
I was eight years old, and I bet I’ve seen every one
of her pictures at least four times. And yet, when I
finally got to meet Doris in person, the look on her
face scared me half to death. It was so unlike any-
thing I’d expected from her. (Continued on page 93)

When I told Doris I wanted to be
a model, she gave me these tips on
how to act before a camera: Be
natural, chin up, eyes open, smile.

by ELVA NEWMAN, 17
New London, Conn.

LITTLE CHERRY EXPLAINS TO
HER FATHER, PAT BOONE:

when God
waked me up
the night
of the fire,

I asked him-
“Dear God,
could you
please speak
a little louder
/ can't
hear you”

( Continued on page 91)

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continued from page 37

Debbie wasn’t at the party. She’d
told me she’d he working late
that night, so she’d finish her new
record, the theme song from
“Suddenly, Last Summer,” in
time. But see what happened when
I checked the rumor with her.
Then turn page for more news.

How do you really feel
about marriage?

What’s your formula for
getting a man?

Is it true that Liz

calls you four times a day?

What do you
think about boys?

What do you
wear to bed at night ?

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Word’s out that Yul Brynner’s
developed a bad case of dandruff.
. . . Jimmy Durante wants me to
tell everyone that it isn’t true he’s
having a nose job. The rumor
started when Jimmy became angry
at having to pay double admission
to see smell-o-vision. . . . Kim
Novak, who was first with last
year’s fad, lavender hair, looked
striking in this year’s style — no
hair at all. . . . Barrie Chase sat
down next to me for a moment and,
sighing, slipped off her shoes. “If
Fred Astaire steps on my foot one
more time,” she said, “I’ll scream.”
. . . Garbo got mad at the photog-
raphers again. They ran out of film
before they could take enough pic-
tures of her. . . . Cary Gr'ant ex-
plained why he flies all the way
to Hong Kong to see his tailor.
“I’m a sloppy eater,” he told me,
“and he’s the only one who knows
how to get soy sauce stains out.”
. . . Saw Eddie Fisher at the Farm-
ers Market, buying the record
“Tammy.” . . . Ingrid Bergman’s
calling ex-husband Rossellini by
his nickname again. And they said
this divorce wouldn’t last ! . . . The
party ended in an uproar when,
no matter how he screamed and
begged, they wouldn’t let Jack
Benny pay the check. — SARA

NORTHAM WARREN. NEW YORK

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( Continued

on Page 89)

YOUR

HANDWRITING
NEVER LIES

Continued, from page 52

has a natural, cheerful, outgoing nature.
The long lower loops denote warm emo-
tions, physical activity, and also good,
practical common sense regarding ma-
terial values. They also indicate a grow-
ing awareness of her womanhood and the
beginning of emotional turbulence due to
a self-consciousness and shyness in her
relationships with boys. Her personal pro-
noun “I” is very tiny. She is extremely
modest and succeeds through her real
merits, not because of an inflated ego. She
must overcome this modesty and have
greater confidence in her own talent if
she is to achieve the success she could
have. Her signature starts with a hook
and a “spring-board” stroke which means
she is tenacious and will drive forward
with animation and energy to success.

FABIAN: His handwriting is imaginative,
lively, animated and has a personal
rhythm that does not conform to rules.
It slants far to the right and is very
irregular. He is emotional, impulsive, sen-
sitive and has varying moods, yet, despite
his conflicting moods and internal inse-
curity, he displays an underlying ma-
turity and determination to rise to the
heights. His large capitals display his
aspirations, his desire for recognition and
also reveal Fabian’s vivid imagination. His
long t-bars, up-slanted, show ambition
and determination. The sharp, angular
“n” shows a keen, quick mind and in-
terpretive ability. The tightly locked “o”
and “a” indicate that he will carefully
guard his inner life with reticence. The
middle zone is small and narrow in com-
parison with the over-all size and here
the final strokes are missing. He is still
emotionally immature, which is natural
at his age, as are inhibitions, shyness and
some self-consciousness. In direct social
relationships he may experience a certain
uneasiness. However, through public per-
formance his tensions are released and he
is able to release excess energy and have
an outlet for his youthful exhibitionism.
His long upper loops are narrow and
pointed, an indication of idealism. He is
full of nervous energy and has a restless
drive. His writing is a good example of
offbeat rhythm and expresses the moods
and emotions of many young people to-
day. His large signature reveals a pro-
nounced theatrical sense. The large, flour-
ished capital “F” shows showmanship, in-
terest in the limelight and a strong bid
for attention. He enjoys and likes public
acclaim. The forward slant and the gar-
land forms in his signature indicate ini-
tiative, personality and flair for public
performance.

It’s interesting to note, says Miss Rosella,
that your handwriting can never reveal
age or sex, even though every character
trait shows up.

DEBBIE REYNOLDS: No circumstance
in life can completely overwhelm her for
she retains an inner balance and poise
which enables her to withstand deeply
disturbing emotional experiences, shown
by her handwriting which is regular, well-
connected with even, wide spacing. The
horizontal line is also even, expressing her
aesthetic sense and her tenacity. How-
ever, her lack of punctuation indicates

she can be careless of other people’s feel-
ings and forget important details.

Her lower loops are long and, with the
even spacing, show remarkable natural
physical coordination. She is rhythmic and
musical and has a fine sense of timing.
Her medium-light pressure shows an
elastic, buoyant nature and fine spirit,
and her garland connections express her
adaptability and responsiveness. The mod-
erately-forward slant shows a natural
and spontaneous approach to life. She is
fundamentally an extrovert.

Her handwriting still adheres somewhat
to the school form with a few initial
strokes, showing she has a strong respect
for her family and her upbringing and
that she is basically conventional.

While mainly sociable and friendly, the
very wide spaces between words and
lines reveal some detachment and isola-
tion. She must not carry her desire for
privacy to the extreme of refusing sincere
friendships. Her tightly closed “o” com-
bined with the encircling movement of
her capitals indicate a reticence about her

personal life and a refusal to give too
much of herself to others.

The large, graceful encircling capitals
in her signature ending in a long down
stroke reveal the importance she attaches
to her public life. Her determination to
succeed as an actress is so strong that she
must guard against letting her career
dominate her life. Her personal pronoun
“I” is vertical, denoting personal inde-
pendence, self-control and objectivity. Her
graceful, well-proportioned upper loops
disclose idealism and imagination.

TUESDAY WELD: Her large script re-
veals her desire to express her personality
before the public, to achieve recognition
and acclaim.

The back slant, combined with sharp
angular forms and long triangular loops
indicates a non-conformism, a rebellious
phase through which she is passing be-
cause of her desire to express herself in
her own way. Combined with long initial
strokes, this indicates a long-standing
family conflict, growing out of her desire
for more freedom and independence.

Her “t” and “d” stems are looped, indi-
cating great sensitivity. The personal pro-
noun “I” is large, showing a strong ego
drive. In contrast to this, her signature
is small, printed and quite unassuming,
and in good taste. Possibly she feels pres-

sured and really would like more quiet
and privacy. Her spacing is excellent and
the writing very legible and beautifully ,
rhythmic. This indicates a good sense of
timing, artistic ability, taste and talent.

She has a good mind. Her “n” and “m”
are sharply pointed which show she is
very discerning. The back slant of these i
angular forms again indicates her strong
antagonism to control. She has great tal-
ent which will be wasted unless she over-
comes her rebelliousness. She should use
her fine intelligence to gain insight into
her inner problems, to reach full expres-
sion of her rich talents.

FRANKIE AVALON: His writing has
great natural charm and discloses a warm,
outgoing personality. People instinctively
like him. He is expansive and spontaneous.
He has a large, quick, right-slanted script
which is quite graceful and original. His
pressure is heavy and shaded, revealing
his warm nature, his responsiveness to
music, and his intensity. His simplified
capital “F” has the large, very full loop so
characteristic of musicians. His imagina-
tion and talent can be seen in his grace-
ful, original capitals.

KIM NOVAK: The overall size is large
and is slanted forward. The pressure is
heavy. Her lower loops are very full and
long, showing she has strong emotional
impulses, physical vitality, energy and
warmth, and has a strong sense of rhythm.
The base line is wavy and uneven and
the small letters vary in size. She must
watch her impulsiveness and emotions.
She should try to find some intellectual
interest. The large size and forward slant
indicate that she wants to express her-
self through her talents and personality
and that she seeks recognition and achieve-
ment. Her angular “m” and “n” reveal
her sharp insight and perceptivity and
her persistence and determination in over-
coming obstacles. Her heavy, hasty pres-
sure reveals her love of the physical
pleasures of life, of luxury and good liv-
ing and also her responses to color and
beautiful clothes. She is intrigued by the
mysterious, the unusual, the exotic and
displays an underlying gentleness.

Her large, stylized, connected and angu-
lar signature reveals her forcefulness, her
initiative, her obduracy and her uncom-
promising determination to reach the
heights in her profession. But she must
not let emotionalism interfere with this
success. A pronounced change in her
writing in past years indicates a growing
strength in her personality and greater
control and deliberation.

DOLORES HART: She has a keen mind,
strength of character, emotional balance
and physical coordination. Her base line
and forward slant are remarkably regular
and show reliability. Her powers of con-
centration and her mental maturity are
indicated by the small size of her letters.
She places so much emphasis on technical
perfection and competence, as shown by
the angular forms, the sharp, precise
strokes and the regularity, that she re-
stricts her creative imagination. Her in-
itiative shows in the forward slant. Her
capitals are simple and well-proportioned,
showing she has refinement, taste and
artistic talent. The pronoun “I” is small.
She is modest but firm and wastes no
time on non-essentials. But it’s important
that she learn how to relax and not drive
herself too hard. She should be more
yielding and responsive with people.
Her finals end abruptly at the line.
Her fine sense of timing, of music
and rhythm are shown in her even spac-
ing. The long lower loops portray her
physical activity, her dancing, and her

warmth of feeling. She is methodical,
moral and controlled. — ROSA ROSELLA

WATCH FOR SANDRA DEE IN U.I.’S “RO-
■ MANOFF AND JULIET” AND ALSO "POR-
TRAIT IN BLACK.” HEAR HER VOICE
IN U.I.’S "THE SNOW QUEEN.” SHE RE-
CORDS FOR DECCA. . . . WATCH FOR
FABIAN IN 20TH’S "HIGH TIME.” HE RE-
CORDS ON THE CHANCELLOR LABEL. .
SEE DEBBIE REYNOLDS IN PAR 'S “THE
. RAT RACE” AND “PLEASURE OF HIS COM-
i PANY.” SHE RECORDS FOR DOT. DON’T
i MISS HER SPECIALS ON ABC-TV. . .

WATCH FOR TUESDAY WELD IN 20TH’S
I "HIGH TIME.” SEE HER IN U.I.’S “THE
PRIVATE LIVES OF ADAM AND EVE” AND
“BECAUSE THEY’RE YOUNG” FOR COL.
SHE’S ALSO ON CBS-TV, TUES., 8:30-9 P.M.,
EST. IN "THE MANY LOVES OF DOBIE
GILLIS.” . . . FRANKIE AVALON CAN BE
SEEN IN U.A.’S "THE ALAMO” AND WAR-
NERS' "GUNS OF THE TIMBERLAND." HE
SINGS FOR CHANCELLOR. . . . WATCH FOR
KIM NOVAK IN COL ’S "STRANGERS WHEN
WE MEET.” . . . WATCH FOR DOLORES
HART IN "THE GIRLS OF SUMMER" FOR
PAR. . . . SEE DWAYNE HICKMAN ON CBS-
TV. TUES., 8:30-9 P.M. EST, IN "THE MANY
LOVES OF DOBIE GILLIS." . . . SEE DARRYL
HICKMAN IN “TEXAS JOHN SLAUGHTER”
ON THE "WALT DISNEY PRESENTS” SHOW,
EVERY FRI., 7:30-8:30 P.M. EST, ON ABC-TV.

ANNETTE

Continued from page 43

You see, something happened last Mon-
day which made me realize that they’re
really as simple to understand as A, B, C.
It all started when I went out on a date
with Tommy Cole (that’s him in the pic-
tures). Remember him? We were Mouse-
keteers together. I hadn’t dated him for
ages — not since he asked me out once,
years ago, on what must have been one of
my very first dates. We had fun that time
but, well, things weren’t quite like they
were last Monday. I wasn’t nearly so at
ease and I remember that I didn’t know
really what to talk about. But now I do.

Anyway, going out with him, again, sort
of made me think; made me realize how
much I’d learned about boys since that
very first time we went out together.
Things which make me able to enjoy
dates, really enjoy them.

First of all, I think a girl should try to
understand a boy’s problems. Try to put
herself in his shoes and imagine how she
would feel if she were in his position. Like
on one date when I went out with a friend
of my brother’s whom I’d known for two
months. He was the umpire for the Little
League baseball team, and he was very
shy. He was awfully nice but he couldn’t
strike up a conversation with anybody.
Fortunately, it was a double date and he
wasn’t as ill at ease as he might have been.
We went to the opening of Ice Capades in
Hollywood. I had appeared on the Disney
show for three years and sometimes people
would recognize me and ask for an auto-
graph. They did, that night, and this boy
stood to one side while the crowd closed
in around me, feeling really left out. I un-
derstood and tried to be extra attentive to
him to make up for it. I think a boy appre-
ciates this.

I remember I was wearing my first high
heels and I was scared stiff. I had trou-
ble walking in them. They must have
been too small or something because my
feet were killing me and, when we reached
our seats, I took those miserable shoes off.
Then my feet swelled up and I had trouble
getting the shoes back on! I was wearing a
party dress — I forget the color — and my
mother’s coat which was white and had a
mink collar. We had hot fudge sundaes
afterward and I never ate a sundae so fast.

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20 minutes

I had to be home by twelve. It was a lot ol
laughs and I loved it.

Something I’ve learned about a boy is—
never trust him completely. They couldn’t
keep a secret if they were sealed in a time
capsule. Most of them tell their boyfriends
everything. It’s best just to always remain
coy.

Sometimes I wonder why boys act the
way they do. But I guess everybody goes
through moods. There are days when I
love everybody, and days when I just want
to be alone. If a boy acts moody when he’s
with you — well, I think they do it for at-
tention. They want to be babied and pam-
pered. Like they’ll say they don’t feel too
well or they’re depressed. I admit that at
times like this I baby them. It’s fun if
that’s what they want. A boy likes a girl
to be sympathetic. He also wants to feel
she’s someone he can trust and confide in-
a girl who won’t drop him for another boy
the moment his back is turned.

I dislike show-offs, or anyone who’s con-
ceited— the superior type who thinks he
knows everything. They’re obnoxious. If
you know him well enough you can say
“Gee, let’s get conceited.” If you don’t,
don’t go out with him any more. That’s
not the kind of date you like to have. No
girl can enjoy a boy who makes her feel
belittled.

If you care enough, you can try to fig-
ure out why a boy is acting that way. I
know many boys in show business who
think they have to be forward or they’re
not going to make it. What they really
need is self-confidence. Sometimes, what
appears to be arrogance or conceit is cov-
ering up a very shy personality.

It’s awful to be shy. I know. When I was
little, I was petrified of people. That’s why
my mother sent me to dancing school.
That’s where I began to come out of it.
And then, when I got on the Disney show,

more than
last night’s

pm-up

wake up

the kids were so friendly and such fun
they helped me tremendously. Until I was
thirteen, I didn’t care about boys or how
I looked or anything.

To this day, I’m still kind of shy when
I meet somebody new. Of course, if he’s in
the business it’s easy because we have so
much in common.

My advice to kids going out on their
first date would be — just try to relax,
and before you leave have everything
planned that you’re going to say. Then you
won’t have any trouble and won’t get
stuck for words. Always be yourself and
don’t worry about making an impression.
That’s where so many boys go wrong. They
think they have to be fresh to make an im-
pression. I hate that type. The best thing
to do with a wolf is to let him know ex-
actly where he stands before you even go
out. A girl lets a boy know how far he
can go. It’s all up to the girl. Some girls
will kiss a boy on the first date, some
won’t. As far as I’m concerned, if you
really like the boy and he likes you, I
think it’s fine.

Boys do lots of things that make you
mad — like bragging about other girls they
know. This does nothing for them but
lower them in your estimation. Some boys
look at other girls constantly. Especially
if you’re in a car. It’s very annoying but
I never say anything. It’s best not to if
that’s the way they want to be. But it
,shows they’re not very mature. And the
practical jokers! They are awful. They’re
never serious. Always clowning around.
At a party you can’t talk to them. They
won’t take anything seriously. It’s very
exasperating. And at every party you find
some character who wants to spike the
punch. They’re such bores. They want the
crowd to think they’re big shots, but
they just prove how infantile they are.

Another type I can’t stand is the fast
driver. They’re not only obnoxious, they’re
downright dangerous. I was on my way to
a hamburger stand, one night, with a boy
who had a little sports car. He was going
way over the speed limit and cutting cor-
ners sharp. I just said, “My girlfriend lives
down the block. You can let me out right
here.”

It’s not that I’m a sissy. I think speed is
fine — at the race track. I know one boy
who has a racing car. I have a Thunder-
bird. I seem to have gotten off the track
(no pun intended). I was talking about
things boys do that make me mad. I don’t
think any boy has the right to tell a girl
how to use makeup or how to wear her
hair. Only a girl knows these things. As
far as clothes are concerned, though, I do
think a boy has the right to say, “Gee, I’d
love to see you in a pretty red dress.” But
they shouldn’t tell you how to dress.

I notice what a boy is wearing immedi-
ately. Especially socks. I love to see if they
match his shirt or sweater. What I love
most, on a boy, are red socks, loafers, gray
pants and bulky red sweaters. I hate slop-
py dressers. It can be very uncomfortable.
Especially if you’re going some place real
nice and they’re dressed all wrong. There’s
no such thing as a gentle hint for getting
around a situation like that. It would be
too embarrassing. What do you say? “Wash
up, would you?” Their manners will prob-
ably match their dress and they won’t
even know enough to open a door for you
and let you enter first. On a casual date, I
don’t think it’s important for a boy to rush
around opening car doors but, when you
go out formal, little things like that are
important.

Another thing I wish boys would under-
stand is that when a girl is in show
business she sometimes has to break

a date for an interview or pictures or
something. Some boys get furious. They
think it’s an act— that you’re trying to
show off or, worse yet, avoid them. That’s
why it’s difficult for me to go with boys
who are not in the business. They just
don’t understand.

I have one friend who does — Paul Anka.
He understands my problems and I under-
stand his. We hit it off beautifully from
the moment we met. His manager was at
our house, one night, and asked if I’d like
to meet Paul. I said yes, so he arranged a
dinner. And Paul and I took to each other
right away

Some people ask whether we’re in love.
Well, we do have wonderful times to-
gether. But are we in love? That’s another
story.

Last minute calls by boys annoy me. I
like to be called by the middle of the week
for a Friday or Saturday date. It’s much
more considerate. Boys who call at the last
minute, make a big mistake. Sometimes it
just makes you think they couldn’t find
anyone else. Of course, if it’s a last minute
inspiration, that’s different. Like when
somebody says, “Hey, let’s have a party.”
Sometimes that’s more fun than something
you’ve looked forward to for weeks.

The having fun part is really important
and it isn’t so hard, though some kids
seem to think so. I’ve had letters from
teenagers asking me how you get to un-
derstand boys and how you can be sure
that a date will be a success. Well, I’d say
all you have to know about boys is maybe
they’re human, too. And this, I think, was
the most important thing that I discovered
when I started to think about boys last
Monday. That they’re really just human
and so often they feel just the same way
girls do. Honest! —The End

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HOLLYWOOD

Continued from page 63

Let me tell you about what happened at
Schwab’s. It might explain the place and
me — and Hollywood.

Because I get mail, messages, phone
calls and visitors at Schwab’s, they have
supplied me with an office. It’s a way of
keeping my mail, messages, phone calls,
visitors and me from getting mixed up
with the prescriptions, perfumes, cosmetics,
etc. This office is at the extreme rear of
the store, and is perched on a ledge about
a flight of stairs above the main floor of
the store.

What’s really important is the fourth
wall, which isn’t really a wall. It’s a large
glass window. This glass window is the
prize of the office, because it overlooks
the entire store. People in the store who
look up see only the attractive grey-cloth
curtains. They don’t know there is an
office behind those curtains, and that often
in this office I’m behind these curtains, un-
seen, watching them.

It’s a wonderful feeling.

I watch the floor show at Schwab’s
nightly. The cast of characters changes
hourly. And what a cast! The minute you

Everyone was whispering about Shirley.

enter the store you’re part of the floor
show. I was sitting up in my office when
the pharmacist downstairs buzzed me and
then said to me on the phone, “There’s a
Shirley MacLaine down here asking if
you’re around. What will I tell her?” I
took a quick peep. Sure enough — “a Shir-
ley MacLaine” was the MacLaine, as if
there could be another. “Send her up,” I
said.

Shirley had a Japanese woman friend
with her and was showing her the sights
of Hollywood, meaning, Shirley hastened
to explain, Schwab’s and the office — not me.
After some polite laughter and pleasant
remarks, I decided to entertain Shirley and
her guest. I told them about the innocent-
looking grey curtains and allowed them to
stand in front of them and look down at
the store and the people. Shirley and her
friend watched the guys and dolls reading
the magazines, spraying themselves with
the sample perfume, etc.

“This is great fun!” declared the Japa-
nese woman. “It is better than standing
in the footprints at Grauman’s Chinese.
Besides, I could not find a pair to fit.”

My size isn’t there either,” wowed
Shirley.

Later, Shirley MacLaine and her friend
P left, Shirley asking if she could come
back another night for the floor show.
From force of habit, I peered from behind
the grey curtains. The cast of the floor

show now included Shirley MacLaine and
the Japanese woman, spraying themselves
with the sample perfume.

And that’s how the rumor started. The
next day, everyone was asking me if it
was true; if I knew what Shirley was up
to. You see, the perfume she chose was
“My Sin.”

Schwab’s closes at midnight. The cast
of characters moves onward and upward
to join other characters. I mean, they
move upward a few blocks onto the fa-
mous Sunset Strip and one of the many
coffee houses which reveal The Strip after
dark.

The Strip is a unique stretch of road
(1.8 mile rialto between Hollywood and
Beverly Hills) where the swank restaurant,
LaRue’s (where Cary Grant or Doris Day
may be dining) rubs elbows with a coffee
house (Unicorn) or an all-night short-
order restaurant. Tops (where Ricky Nel-
son or Judi Meredith can be waiting for
the group). People used to sneed on The
Strip to get from Beverly Hills to Holly-
wood and vice versa. Today, The Strip,
with its swank shops, its office buildings,
its talent agencies and its nightlife, is as
important as Beverly Hills, more important
than Hollywood.

The Strip, with its sidewalk cafes, has
taken on a Continental atmosphere and
looks like old Vienna — or so I’m told.

I know the coffee houses have supplied a
great need for the young players as well
as the beatniks: it has given them a place
to meet. The coffee house is just another
form of the Lonely Hearts Club. People,
young and old, become lonely and they
like to gather and chat. There comes that
hour when people need people and not
another TV program.

The two most popular coffee houses on
The Strip are Chez Paulette and Cy-
rano’s. But don’t go there expecting to
see the big-name movie stars. They — and
I mean John Wayne, Kirk Douglas, Kim
Novak, Tony Curtis and even Jayne Mans-
field— only go there on special occasions:
with a visitor from home, for instance.
The coffee houses, for the main, are fre-
auented by beatniks, fringe characters, and
the kids. The younger players, such as
Tuesday Weld, George Hamilton, Linda
Hutchings, Mickey Callan, Barrie Chase,
can be found at these Strip coffee houses.
Many of the younger players come here
on a Tuesday night, after their drama
class, or on a Friday night, which happens
to be the big date night out here.

There are exceptions, however. Marlon
Brando, when not deeply engrossed in
something, wanders the coffee house cir-
cuit. Sometimes, Marlon comes to these
crowded coffee houses to take a table and
be alone; other times, he is with his friends,
Sam Gilman, Lisbeth Hush and Carlo
Fiori. In fact, Marlon was a shill for a
coffee house. He put over the Chez Paul-
ette. Because Marlon went there a few
nights a week, the place became packed.
The Brando disciples didn’t know when
their Marlon would be there, so, to make
sure, they were present every night.

Marlon and his group now frequent Cy-
rano’s, which is run by Jack Klotz and
features good food and good manners. It
is said that the place is frequented by
“neat beatniks.”

Before leaving The Strip, I must tell you
about Dino’s, which is featured in the TV
series “77 Sunset Strip.” Don’t expect to
find Dean Martin dining here nightly. He
seldom puts in an appearance, and, if the
truth must be known, Dino dines most
often at home. Or else, he can be found at
friend Frank Sinatra’s (and Peter Law-
ford’s) place, Puccini’s, or at the Villa
Capri, or at La Scala.

Tourists coming to town are surprised

to discover that “77 Sunset Strip” is not
actually next door to Dino’s, and that the
exact number on the awning next door
is 8532. The building next door is not the
home of those never-failing private eyes,
Efrem Zimbalist. Jr. and Roger Smith, but
the home of another type agency — the Mary
Webb Davis Model agency.

There are some things for real in this
supposed make-believe town that both
tourist and resident should take in if he
or she is to know the town well. First,
there are the empty footprints in the
forecourt of Grauman’s Chinese Theater.
Those footprints now cost $150 to be
firmly imprinted there in cement. It is
still the desire of those aspiring to fame to
stand in the footprints of the mighty and
try them on for size— regardless of how
corny these hip IN people might say it is.
So go ahead and do it, if you feel like it,
on your trip to Hollywood.

I know this story to be true. It happened
a few years ago when, after making “Gen-
tlemen Prefer Blondes,” Marilyn Monroe
and Jane Russell both put their footprints
into the forecourt of Grauman’s Chinese.
A few nights later, after the cement had
dried and hardened, Marilyn made a trip
to Grauman’s Chinese. Hollywood Boule-
vard was empty and deserted, except for
a few slim-hipped chaps cruising in their
sports cars. It was about two in the
morning when Marilyn parked her car,
walked over to her own footprints, and
stood in them.

“I waited a long time to get them there.

I wanted the thrill of standing in my own
footprints,” said Marilyn.

Then, she got back into her car and
drove home and slept the sleep of the
contented. How do I know this? The lady
told me so herself the next day when, as
usual, I was hitch-hiking.

I don’t drive. I am chauffeured to one of
the studios by my wife, Estelle, de-
posited, and left on my own. From now
on, and sometimes it goes on until two or
three in the morning, I am on my own.

I haven’t driven a car for all the years I
have covered the Hollywood Beat. I can’t
drive. And don’t tell me how easy and
simple it is! All the improvements of the
auto manufacturers haven’t solved the
driving problem for me, yet. But I admire
them and thank them for keeping on trying.

I seldom take taxis — only when real
stuck — because I feel that is something
akin to cheating. Anyone can phone for a
cab (the biggest taxi service in town is the
Yellow Cab) or take a bus (there are lots
of them; to find out which goes where
just call Richmond 7-4455).

But the actors, actresses, secretaries,
starlets, grips, have come to know that I
don’t drive. And I have come to know the
departing time and the direction the vari-
ous actors, actresses, secretaries, etc. will
be driving. It has worked out very well,
and there have been only a few times that
I’ve been left stranded in the chill night
air.

This not-driving-a-car, I have found to
be an asset, although it was not planned
this way when I started columning. It isn’t
that I obtain any stop-the-press scoops
from my celebrity chauffeurs, but I often
hear some interesting chatter. More im-
portant is the background knowledge I
acquire from my chauffeurs. I say there’s
nothing like riding with a movie star to
know a movie star, well — almost nothing
like it.

I was given a lift by Gary Cooper when
he drove a streamlined sports car and liked
to feel the breeze push against his face.
Gary, let me tell you, had more than “Yup”
to say to other drivers on the road. To-
day’s speed-boy is Steve McQueen and he
gets a charge when he charges that motor

Steve does drive carefully and, to my
knowledge, he hasn’t received a ticket.
But I will say he gets me to Schwab’s
faster than anyone else. I remember, once,
when Marlene Dietrich was my chauffeur,
and suddenly I asked her to stop on
Wilshire, near Rodeo. I spotted a friend
who was waiting for a cab. He got into
Dietrich’s car and Marlene merely said,
“I’ve got a hitch-hiker who picks up hitch-
hikers!”

For quite some time, Marilyn Monroe
was my chauffeur. Marilyn is an individual
while driving a car, as she is with every-
thing. For a while, I was concerned, be-
cause Marilyn would be looking into the
mirror at herself or memorizing some lines,
her eyes blinking closed for a brief second.
“Marilyn!” I’d shout, “why don’t you look
where you’re going? Why don’t you look
at the other cars!” Marilyn would reply,
“I don’t have to look at the other cars.
They’re looking at me.”

I don’t have to tell you. They were! And
Marilyn is one of the best and safest
chauffeurs I ever had. I’m telling you all
this, dear people, so that if you ever see
me standing outside of a studio or on Sun-
set Boulevard, you might offer me a ride.
Especially if you’re going in the direction
of Schwab’s, my headquarters.

I don’t care what anyone says is happen-
ing to the movies. The hundreds of daily
visitors to Hollywood want to see a movie
studio. And by see it, they mean get into
a studio, onto a set, and stand close
enough to a movie star to whisper “Hello”
and be heard.

I know what it means getting into a stu-
dio, because, although I’m a columnist,
I’m basically a visitor. I can get into
a studio okay; my problem is staying
there. You see, I’m a columnist who likes
to do his work (writing the column in-

cluded) from a studio office — when I’m not
at Schwab’s. And these offices, pven empty,
are reserved for employees of the studio.
Several times I have gone to great lengths,
such as producing movies (“The Jolson
Story,” “The Eddie Cantor Story”), to se-
cure an office-within-a-studio to write my
column. Therefore, I don’t believe I have
to say any more to assure you that I know
how much it means to you to crash a
studio.

I’m with you, and I’ll admit the studios
should be better organized and have better
arrangements to take care of the many
people who want to visit their glamor
factories. The only advice I can give you
is to phone the studio you want to visit
(after you arrive in town, of course) . Sev-
eral studios have their own guided tours,
while others have made arrangements with
bus companies for a tout of the studios. All
of the TV studios have guided tours, too,
and when you call about those, you can
ask for tickets to your favorite sbow at the
same time.

The tour won’t be as complete or indi-
vidualistic as if you were a relative of
M-G-M’s Sol C. Siegel, but at least it’s
getting in — and that’s something!

There’s nothing I like better than to
walk and browse in the shops, and I do
this whenever I’m a little in front with my
work or I have a visitor in town. Then I
travel the streets of Beverly Hills, from
little Santa Monica to Wilshire, which I
call Schlepp Row, and look into the mar-
kets, the galleries, the book stores. On
these streets, dressed for lunch in the
latest fashion or in slacks, you can bump
into some of your favorite movie actresses
acting like wives — doing the shopping, the
marketing. I have met Janet Leigh, Bar-
bara Rush, and even May Britt selecting
vegetables and books.

The two most popular book stores in

Beverly, I’d say, ar e Martindale’s and
Marian Hunter’s I have known Marian
Hunter and her husband, Dick Kilpatrick,
for years and must introduce them to you
to include in our cast of characters.

Marian is one of the founders of the
original Hollywood Studio Club (where
Kim Novak lived when she was just getting
started) and will tell you great stories of
those pioneer days in movietown. She re-
calls how ZaSu Pitts eloped. “Not that
she had to. We all knew she was going to
get married. We even put the ladder next
to her window so she could climb down
and make her getaway#” Dick Kilpatrick
will tell you about the trade winds that
blow in across the Pacific from the islands.
“And if you arrange the windows and
doors in your house right, the place will
be cool and you’ll never need an air-con-
ditioning system.” There must be some-
thing in what Kilpatrick says, because the
Marian Hunter bookshop is always com-
fortable on the hottest day. Oh yes, if
Kilpatrick is really your friend, he's apt
to lean over and whisper to you; “I
wouldn’t buy that book. I read it You
won’t like it#” He’s that kind of a book-
seller.

And at Martindale’s, you’re apt to run
into Groucho Marx, Art Linkletter, or any
of the other actor-authors who are brows-
ing around to see how their books are sell-
ing. And in Hollywood books do sell. I’m
told that one of the first charge accounts
Kim Novak opened was at a bookstore.

I won’t name too many things in par-
ticular that you should see and do while
in Hollywood. This you can get by sending
away for the special, booklet that’s offered
on the Photoplay coupon at the end of
this story And be like me on the Holly-
wood Beat. Know what you do know and
play the rest by ear. Improvise. It’s more
fun.

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But be certain that you know the movie
stars when you see them. Plenty of people
mistake movie stars for tourists, and visi-
tors for movie stars. It was only the other
day that Paul Newman came into Schwab’s.
The clerk who waited on him was terribly
excited, and, before the sale had been
made, asked Paul if he could have an
autograph. Paul pleasantly obliged. Then
the purchase was made, and Paul Newman
wrote out a check for a little more than
the purchase, because he wanted to have
a little cash with him. The same clerk,
who had just pocketed the autograph,
looked at the check, looked at Paul New-
man, and then politely asked: “Have you
any identification with you, sir?”

And don’t forget me if you're driving
along Wilshire, Sunset or Hollywood
Boulevard. I’m a short, dark fellow who
is looking for a ride, thank you.

6 DAYS WITH PLAY

How many of the places on pages 62 and
63, did you guess? Here are the answers,
by column (or day), going from the top
down:

FIRST DAY

Getting there is fun: You can find out all
about the different ways to get to Holly-
wood by sending for the booklet on Photo-
play’s coupon. If you take the train, for
instance, it lands you right across from
colorful Olvera Street, the Spanish-Mexi-
can village. I must be truthful and tell you
that I’ve never been to Olvera Street or
Chinatown either, which is also in down-
town Los Angeles. I’ve been told they’re
great and plenty of fun. But from my very
beginning in Hollywood, I tried to pass
as a native and seldom got below Western
Avenue. However, don’t be a dope like me.
You go, and then tell me about it. A few
more sales talks and I’m going to turn
tourist. You people have more fun.

SECOND DAY

Disneyland: It’s 45 minutes from Holly-
wood, just by placing your car on the
Santa Ana Freeway and allowing it to
follow the other cars. You can go by bus
or helicopter, too. This place takes the
barker and the gyp out of the amusement
center and brings an honest, clean and
entertaining Walt Disney feature alive.
General Admission’s $1.00 if you’re be-
tween 12 and 17, another quarter if you’re
older. But Annette Funicello recommends
getting one of the special Ticket Books
that combine general admission and a
number of attractions all for one price.
She told me you can do Disneyland for
about $5.00 and never even notice you’re
on a budget.

Farmers Market: Definitely a must, it can
be found on Fairfax and Third St., by TV
City, which keeps its CBS eye on it. Here
you can eat, outdoors, any type of food;
you can shop for anything from a stamp
to an antique; you can have your shoes
repaired while you wait, or have a facial,
also while you wait; you can buy vegeta-
bles, fruit and meat, delivered fresh early
that very morning. The prices are fairly
reasonable. The one drawback: the place
is always crowded. If it’s too crowded,
you can cross the street — be careful! — and
go to the Town and Country Market,
which grew and is growing and takes care
of the overflow from Farmers.

THIRD DAY

Grauman’s Chinese: If you don’t know all

p about this place, you probably don’t go to
the movies often enough. Other famous
movie theaters out here are the Pantages,
at Hollywood and Vine, where they give

o L

out the Oscars, and the Egyptian Theater
on Hollywood Blvd., a real showplace.
Dancing: Try the Moulin Rouge or, for
a great view of the town, the Star on the
Roof, at the Beverly Hilton. And while
you’re in an elegant mood, visit my fa-
vorite hotel, the Beverly Hills Hotel. I sit
in front of the fireplace in the lobby and
watch the movie stars go by into the Polo
Lounge. I wish I had the dough that’s
merely discussed over the tables in this
lounge. If I did, I could afford to register.
Brown Derby: I must tell you about the
Derby, probably the first Hollywood res-
taurant to become nationally famous. The
original Brown Derby is on Wilshire
Blvd., near the Ambassador Hotel, and is
the only one still in the shape of a brown
derby. The others are on Vine St., in
Beverly Hills on Rodeo Dr. and Wilshire,
and on Las Feliz Blvd. If you don’t want
to look like a tourist, enter the Vine St.
Derby by the side entrance, near the park-
ing lot. TV celebrities do this. It makes
them feel IN.

Trader Vic’s: They’ve got food from the
49th state, so go ahead and try it. Don’t
be a sissy and end up ordering from the
ham-and-eggs side of the menu.

FOURTH DAY

77 Sunset Strip: See what it really says
on the canopy.

TV City: This is where CBS beams its
shows from. NBC calls its hangout Tele-
vision Center. Call either place for tickets.
Wil Wright’s: If you want various shades
of ice cream, done up fancier and sweeter
than you’ve ever tasted, drop in at one
of the Wil Wright ice-cream parlors,
scattered throughout the town. Molly Bee
and other younger stars like the branches
on Sunset Strip or South Beverly Dr. The
same gang haunts the branch of Ham-
burger Hamlet that’s right near the Photo-
play office. If you’re an organic food fan
and like ending your dinner with Tiger’s
Milk or Dandelion Coffee, you can get a
table at the Aware Inn, right next to
Gardner McKay, Joan Collins, Mark
Damon or Nick Adams. I was introduced
to this place by Mari Blanchard; and often
you’ll be surprised who’s now on a health
food kick. I am.

FIFTH DAY

Beauty: I’m not much for beauty shops,
as I didn’t have to inform you, but I’ve
been told by everyone, from Janet Leigh
to Mrs. Jim Garner, that they read my

Photoplay column under a hair drier. Be-
lieve me, I’m grateful to be read anywhere,
and if it improves circulation, I’m for in-
stalling more driers. I must confess, how-
ever, that I’ve only visited one beauty
parlor and it’s the one belonging to Gene
Shacove, located on Wilshire Blvd. I went
there to see what starlets look like under a 1
hair drier, reading Photoplay. They tell me i
they look the same at Cinema Hair Styl-
ists, where the stars go to have their hair
done by the same men who do it for
them at the studios.

Shopping: If you have time, try to visit
McDaniel’s Market, in Beverly Hills on
Schlepp Row, where you’re apt to run into
anyone from June Allyson to Barbara
Stanwyck to Mrs. Edward G. Robinson.
While in this neighborhood, there’s Bailey’s
for cakes and goodies. Another notable
market is the Ranch Market in Holly-
wood which, open around the clock, has
an outdoor coffee shop, and was Holly-
wood’s first boast that we didn’t pull in
the sidewalks at midnight. Also in Holly-
wood is the Hughes Market, newer and
also open all night. I’ve seen Marlon
Brando there, pushing a wire cart. This
is strictly for Night People. For Day
People, you can splurge on clothes where
the stars do, at Jax in Beverly Hills or
Ruth Lewis’ in Westwood Village. And
there are stores that sell stars’ clothes. But
don’t take them too seriously. Most of the
stars give their old clothes to charity.
Cyrano’s: That picture of me on the ter-
race was taken on an off-day at this coffee
shop. Brando wasn’t there.

SIXTH DAY

Swimming: I’m not much in a bathing suit,
but Paul Anka tells me the best beaches
are at Santa Monica, Malibu, Zuma, Her-
mosa, Laguna, Balboa and Newport.
Tennis: There are a couple of courts right
next to the Sand and Pool Club at the
Beverly Hills Hotel. I’m strictly a spec-
tator, which can be rugged, too. For in-
stance, I have a stiff neck for days after
I watch Efrem Zimbalist or Bob Evans
play.

Eggheads: By now, everyone knows where
Edward G. Robinson, Martha Hyer and
Rock Hudson put their money — in paint-
ings. Actually, everybody’s doing it, and
you can see the stars looking over future
investments at such art galleries as Hat-
field Dalzell’s, Paul Kantor’s Perreau-
Saussine or Esther Robles’.

And that’s Hollywood for you.

Please send me free
travel literature. I am
especially interested in:

NAME

PASTE ON A POSTCARD AND MAIL TO:

Photoplay Travel Dept.

221 N. LaSalle Street
Chicago 1, Illinois

□ Package Tours

□ Things to do and see in Hollywood

□ Routes to Hollywood

Q Packing Pointers and Wardrobe Tips

ADDRESS

CITY

STATE

EFREM ZIMBALIST

Continued from page 55

Just ahead, the traffic light was chang-
ing to red on Ventura Boulevard. He
jammed on the brakes and the big car
skidded to a sudden halt.

“Hey, Zimmy,” someone yelled from the
open window of a car which had pulled
up beside his. “Where are you going in
such a hurry?”

He looked around. It was one of his
and Steffi’s friends. A nice guy — a reporter
on one of the local papers. Somehow he
felt like a kid caught playing hooky from
school. Before he realized what he was
doing, he was saying sheepishly, “Steffi
and I — we’ve had a misunderstanding. I’ll
call you about it later. That’s a promise.”

The reporter looked startled and sud-
denly Efrem realized the full implications
of what he had said. “I must have been
feeling really guilty about the whole thing
to blurt it all out so quickly,” he thought.

“Say . . began the reporter.

“Will you do me a favor?” interrupted
Efrem. “Don’t say anything about this to
anyone . . . not even at the paper. I’ll call
and tell you the real story later. Okay?
I don’t want false rumors floating around.”

At that moment, the lights changed.
Efrem put his foot quickly down onto the
accelerator and roared off. He drove on
for what seemed like endless hours, finally
checking into a motel just two blocks
away from the Warner Brothers studio.

The motel room was simple. Just a bed —
with a well-worn spread — a dresser marred
with cigarette burns, a couple of chairs
and a television set. Feeling depressed,
Efrem closed the door behind him. He sud-
denly realized how alone he was. He hated
being alone . . . had hated it ever since
his first wife, Emily McNair, had died ten
years before and he’d been left by himself
to bring up their two children.

He sat down dejectedly on the bed and
then lay back. It was odd, he thought,
how situations that aren’t connected at all
can bring to mind old memories. Those

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years had been terrible and it was not
until he met Steffi, in 1955, that life had
seemed worth living again. With under-
standing and patience, she’d gently brought
him out of the melancholy he’d been living
in and given him a new sense of purpose
and happiness that he’d never thought to
find again.

Together, the two of them had come out
to California, away from his old memories
in New York — Steffi had settled down to
raise his two children and they had even
had a child of their own a year later.
Efrem had begun on a promising film
career and even their age difference — she
was in her early twenties and he, already
in his middle thirties— seemed no barrier
to their love.

But things hadn’t stayed that way. Yet
even so, Efrem was already feeling a little
sorry for his hasty action.

He was thinking about his new daugh-
ter, Steffi Jr., when, a few moments later,
he sat up again and turned on the reading
lamp beside his bed. The shadows of dusk
were beginning to form, and usually, at
about this time, he’d go up to her room
to kiss her goodnight.

Earlier that day, he’d put his two eldest
children on a plane for Philadelphia so
that they might stay with his parents until
some decision about the future of his mar-
riage could be made. Little Steffi had
remained at the house with her mother.

Suddenly, he remembered his promise
to the reporter. He picked up the receiver
of the telephone beside the bed.

“It’s a trial separation,” he told the man
a few minutes later. “We hope to iron
out our problems. No, we’re not planning
a divorce at this time.”

“Then what are the problems?” asked
the man.

“Just some misunderstandings,” was the
reply. He hardly knew himself.

The breakup of his marriage deeply
puzzled him. What had gone wrong? It
wasn’t one major issue. It wasn’t that
simple. If there had been one thing wrong
— like falling in love with another person—
it would be easier to condemn or forgive.
But that wasn’t the case. It was more a
build-up of all the little, petty misunder-
standings which had finally come to a
peak.

“I felt a little guilty about bringing
Steffi to California,” Efrem once told a
friend. “She had a lot of friends in the
East and knew no one in Hollywood.
But she didn’t seem to mind.

“We moved into the home that Eddie
Fisher and Debbie Reynolds lived in be-
fore their divorce. We kidded each other
that the house might be jinxed.” Could

this have played on their minds?

In recent months, he and Steffi had
begun drifting more and more apart. Until
then, everything had seemed to be running
smoothly. But, suddenly, he became
swamped with work. He would sometimes
have to spend fourteen hours a day be-
fore the cameras, and he seldom got a
day off. As with most TV stars, he’d come
home late at night, have dinner, study his
lines for the next day’s shooting, and
fall into bed exhausted. Often, they didn’t
have a chance to talk to each other for
days on end. Many times, she’d be sleep-
ing when he arrived home, and then he’d
have to get up before dawn for an early
set call the next morning. And they
began to lose the closeness they’d once
shared.

“You just can’t expect a marriage to
last on this basis,” one of their close
friends pointed out. “You’ll be strangers
soon. Don’t be blind. Don’t take each
other too much for granted.”

It didn’t help matters, either, he re-
membered, when a Hollywood gossip
columnist started printing items that the
marriage was on the rocks.

“I was mad enough to punch the writer
in the nose,” Efrem recalled, “because
there wasn’t anything wrong at the time.
People kept calling the house to inquire
about the items. Both Steffi and I were
deeply shocked.”

Apparently the columnist either had a
crystal ball or knew what the Zimbalists
may have been afraid to admit to them-
selves. Somehow, in recent weeks, it had
become almost impossible to talk together
any more, to share so many things the
way they used to do. Even on weekends,
they couldn’t seem to get together. Dressed
in a pair of blue jeans, she’d want to go
to the stables to ride. She’d always loved
horses. He’d head for Beverly Hills to
play tennis. They seemed to have nothing
left in common.

“I’m baffled by the ways of Hollywood,”
she confided to a friend. “I don’t like the
cocktail parties. I don’t care for some of
the people. Life is a lot less complicated
in the East.”

Trouble really started the night of
Efrem’s forty-first birthday party on No-
vember 30th. It was rumored that Steffi
was upset because a few of Efrem’s friends
had too much to drink. But if this were
true, she never actually said so. It was
a gay evening. She was a perfect hostess
to the more than fifty guests and Efrem
appeared very happy. On hand were most
of his studio friends. Roger Smith had
brought his wife, Vici Shaw, and Edd
Byrnes showed up with his best girl, Asa

Maynor. But was it all just a front?

For, from then on, they seemed to fight j
about every little thing. They found
fault with each other all the time, tempers
became short, conversation was awkward
or even impossible.

And finally, as he told the reporter over
the telephone, “We had a violent argu-
ment. I can’t even recall what started it
all. One thing led to another. Words
came out I didn’t mean. I had to get away.

I was burning with anger.”

During the next few days, Hollywood
tongues began wagging about the breakup
of the marriage. Had he fallen in love
with another woman? Maybe he was too
old for Steffi? Maybe she’d found someone
else? But it was none of these.

When Efrem reported for work on the
following Monday, it was obvious from
the moment he walked on the set that
something was wrong. Instead of laughing
and cracking jokes with the cast and crew,
he walked sullenly into his dressing room
and closed the door. Even his makeup
man could hardly get him to say “good
morning.” Then, one of the crew, arriving
just a little late, remarked to a pal, “Seen
Efrem’s car this morning? It’s covered
with dirt and mud. That’s not like him —
he always keeps it spotlessly clean.”

“There’s been some trouble between him
and his wife,” the friend told him. “I’ve
heard he moved out to a motel.”

The day was miserable for Efrem. He
didn’t know whether or not to call home.
Maybe it was all a nightmare? But no. He
had left and that was that. There was no
turning back — not after all that was said.

That night, a woman friend took Steffi
out to dinner. She tried to patch things
up but Steffi, too, was moody. She didn’t
even want to talk about it. Watching
Steffi, the woman felt sorry for her. “She’d
seemed so happy just a few weeks ago,”
the woman thought. “Can any wife ever
be sure of her marriage?” Steffi had
hardly touched her dinner and, as soon
as the meal was over, she apologized to
her friend and went home.

The next evening, Efrem was feeling
moody too. He could stand the separation
no longer. Somehow, from the loneliness
of his motel room, it all seemed so petty
and pointless. He called home from the
set, hardly knowing what to say, and a
little afraid she would not speak to him.
But she did come to the telephone, al-
though her manner was formal and brief.
They agreed to spend Christmas day to-
gether with little Steffi.

The moment Efrem put the receiver
down, he knew he was pleased with what
he had just done. Though when someone
asked him later what made him call Steffi,
he just smiled. But it was Christmas. . .

Christmas had always meant something
special to the two of them, ever since their
first one together. Then it had looked as
though they would be far apart — he’d been
out in Hollywood arranging a Warners’
contract while she’d been back in New
York, tidying up their affairs there so
that they could live permanently in Holly-
wood. At the time, he remembered, he’d
dreaded the thought of spending Christ-
mas away from Steffi and his children,
Nancy and Skipper. But there seemed no
solution.

Then, the night before Christmas, as he
was finishing up for the day at the studio
and feeling really like a lost soul, a set
hand had called him to the telephone.
“Call for you, Mr. Zimbalist,” the man
had said.

Call? He hadn’t been expecting any
calls. He went over to the telephone. “Look
here,” the voice at the other end had said
angrily before Efrem had had a chance
to speak. “I rented you a house from
January but it seems a package has al-

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ready arrived here for you. You’ll have
to come right over to sign for it.” It was
his new landlord and, so as not to annoy
him too much, Efrem went to the house.

When he got there, the man told him
the package was in the den. He pushed
open the door with one hand and was
halfway into the room before he realized
what had happened. There, in the middle
of the floor, was a big Christmas tree all
decorated with balls and lights and with
Christmas packages heaped under it. He
just stood and stared until he heard a
giggle and then, turning around, he saw
Steffi and Nancy and Skipper.

“Surprise! Surprise!” they’d all shouted.
And then Steffi, between tears and laugh-
ter, told him how their old landlord had
rented their New York apartment almost
immediately and how their furniture had
been packed in just a few days so that
they could all be together at Christmas.

After that, she’d always had wonderful
surprises for him and he felt he could
never tell her how much her love really
meant. . . .

After his call to Steffi, the days passed
slowly until Christmas, and when it ar-
rived, he felt like Santa Claus. He had
bought a doll and other presents for his
daughter . . . even had his car washed.
And it was as though he had never been
away from home when he rolled his car
to a stop in front of his house. Steffi, hold-
ing the little girl, was standing by the
door, and, as he climbed out, his daughter
ran over to kiss him.

“Daddy, Daddy,” she cried. “Where
have you been?”

Efrem didn’t answer for a moment. He
just smiled and looked up at his wife.

“He’s been busy,” she said. “Working
very hard. Come on, let’s all go inside.”

And that day it seemed as though noth-
ing had ever gone wrong. Although

neither of them said anything, they both
knew the other wanted things to stay
that way. All the time, he kept remember-
ing the wonderful things about their rela-
tionship that had made it so dear to him.
. . . The first time Steffi had met his
children. It was in a restaurant and she
had somehow, by her warm smile and
gentle ways, made them feel so comfort-
able, so natural with her, that they’d come
to accept her as a mother immediately. . . .
The night little Steffi had been born and
they’d decided to move into this house
because the other was getting too small.
. . . The night, the day, all the nights and
days in fact, which now, as he remem-
bered, seemed so wonderful he could
hardly realize how they had ever fought.

“Right then I knew the marriage had

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to be saved,” he recalled. “It was a fun
day. Our thoughts were only of Christ-
mas. We were so busy with the baby
that we didn’t have much of a chance to
talk. But we agreed it would be best if
we remained apart another month.”

Undoubtedly, Efrem felt like making it
up right then. Steffi felt the same. How-
ever, that night the big car returned to
the motel. Back to the same dreary room.

The month’s trial separation had been
agreed upon and they did not think they
should change it. But Efrem’s calls home
became more and more frequent. Instead
of short conversations he’d spend long
periods talking to Steffi. She would even
call him. Actually they hadn’t talked so
much in months.

Soon, they were even able to talk about
the breakup, realizing it had mostly been
caused because they’d selfishly been spend-
ing too much time with their individual
interests and not enough with each other.
So, without the harmony of good times
together, petty disputes had developed
into major ones. There was the time that
Steffi bought an interest in a race horse.
Efrem had been saving the money to buy
a cabin cruiser. And now he couldn’t.

It was now just a couple of days before
New Year’s Eve. Efrem made a special
call to his wife to ask her for a date. “Are
you busy that night?” he asked in a very
small voice. “If not, perhaps we could
spend it together.”

And they did. They spent the evening
quietly at home.

“And that evening,” said Efrem, “we
talked everything over. We decided we
had too much at stake to let petty griev-
ances ruin what we had built in our mar-
riage. It was worth saving for so many
reasons. I love my wife. We love each
other and have three wonderful children.”

The decision sent Efrem racing back
to his motel to pack his bags again. But
this time he was packing them to return
home. He flung the suitcases back into
the car. “Problems would still crop up,”
he thought, as he drove home. But this
time he firmly believed they would know
how to cope with them and not let them
slide.

They were two people who had learned
that marriage can never be taken for
granted. They had realized that you can
never be sure of love. It needs hard work
and a great deal of care to build and keep
it lasting. The End

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BRIGITTE BARDOT

Continued from page 39
Brigitte was trying desperately to con-
centrate on the television screen before
her. But it was impossible. Every time
she looked down at her body, she thought
how proud she’d always been of her
figure. She wondered if she would get it
back.

“How much longer?” asked Brigitte,
looking up at Jacques. But he could not
answer her. He only knew what she
already knew — that it would be soon.

Nervously, Brigitte reached for a maga-
zine which lay beside her but, flipping
quickly through the pages, she could find
nothing to hold her interest.

“Lie down for a while,” suggested
Jacques. “Try to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep,” she said, sounding de-
pressed. “It is so difficult . . . like this.”
And, as she spoke, she looked over at him
with a look that seemed to ask, “Do you
really understand ... do you really care?”
Because, for several months now, they’d
realized a rift had been growing, separat-
ing them — ever since Jacques had had to
go into the army. From that time, early
last fall, when he’d been called for duty,
he’d become moody. “If we separate, I
shall lose you,” he’d insisted.

She tried watching television again.
But the only program on, was about a
woman who struggled through the pains
of childbirth without the aids of modern
medicine.

There was fright in her eyes. Was this
an omen? The thought kept racing around
and around in her mind. She couldn’t stop
it. Was she going to die?

“What if . . . what if my baby comes
and there’s no one here,” she said, “like
that woman in the film?”

“No, of course that won’t happen. We’ve
made all the arrangements too carefully,”
Jacques said softly.

Brigitte looked thoughtful. It was hard
to know whether she could trust in him,
believe him. Since that incident in the
army, where his nerves had been shat-
tered to pieces in a matter of weeks by
ribbing of other recruits who had stocked
the barracks with pinups of her, she had
felt a great weakness in him. The incident
had so troubled him, that she had found
him leaning more and more on her. And
when he had finally left the army and had

come home, it seemed almost as a boy
coming to a mother . . . just when she’d
needed his strength most. She’d even told
a friend, “You cannot love a man twenty-
four hours a day. You must also be able
to respect and rely upon him. I can’t do
this with Jacques.” Cooped up in their
Paris apartment, waiting for the baby to
come, things had become even worse.

It was hard for a woman to really feel
she wanted a baby at a time like this. And,
as the date of the birth had drawn nearer,
fright had been added to her troubles, even
though Jacques had insisted, “No arrange-
ments for a birth could have been more
carefully planned.”

It was true. Everything possible had
been planned so that the birth would
be uncomplicated. They had even de-
cided that Brigitte should have her baby
right in their own apartment, to avoid the
usual rush to the hospital and the crowds
which might have surged in on the car
and frightened her. The study on the
floor below, had been remodeled into a
delivery room. A long table had been
set up in the center; oxygen and steriliz-
ing equipment had been brought in; the
room had been scrubbed and cleared of
most of its furniture, until it stood ready
to receive their child.

Suddenly, Brigitte twisted violently, as
though in pain. “Jacques!” she shouted.
“I think . . .” Then she broke off and her
face suddenly became calm again. “A
false pain,” she said, smiling weakly. “But
every time . . she began, now obviously
uncomfortable, “every time I think about
what happened to Henri, something seems
to happen to me. It’s stupid, I suppose,
but it’s frightening.”

“It’s all past,” answered Jacques. “Try
not to think about it.” But they had both
been terribly upset by the recent, sudden
death of their good friend, actor Henri
Vidal.

The news of the death had been on the
minds of both of them, not only because
Vidal had been a close friend, but because
it had come so swiftly after the death of
another friend — Gerard Philipe.

“Two deaths . . .” counted Brigitte.
“They always come in three’s,” she said.
The words seemed to hang in the air.
At seven o’clock, their cook, Yvonnette,
brought in a snack for Brigitte: coffee and
a roll with butter. She did not want any-
thing else. She was still feeling uncom-

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5-60

fortable. But it was important that she eat.

But feeling unwell was not unusual for
Brigitte. Her nine months of pregnancy
had not been easy, for physical pain had
been mixed with emotional difficulty.
Almost immediately after her secret mar-
riage to Jacques, early last summer, near
her vacation home in the picturesque
southern French village of St. Tropez,
newsmen had hounded them with rumors
that she was going to have a baby —
rumors which so disturbed and upset both
of them that finally, when she found out
she was, in fact, pregnant, she could not
feel the elation she should have. And
that was not all that disturbed their love,
their laughter and fun in that little village
by the sea. Jacques suddenly complained
of violent pains and had to be rushed to
the hospital for an emergency appendec-
tomy. And just about then, she’d also
started to feel the difficulties of being mar-
ried to a very jealous man.

Then, as the warm, careless summer
days drifted into fall and they came
back to Paris, she had had to face
more troubles: a skin ailment covered her
face and she was so embarrassed, she did
not go out in public and worried, too, that
her husband should see her this way. At
the same time, the government pressed
for back taxes and, as if they didn’t have
enough trouble, a letter arrived, one morn-
ing, which almost made her panic.

The moment she had seen the official
stamp on the envelope, she had sensed
that it might contain what she feared
most — a draft notice for Jacques. They’d
both been hoping he wouldn’t be called
until after the baby was born. She took
the letter in to Jacques, who was eating
breakfast, and stood next to him as he
opened it.

He looked up at her. “I’ll have to go,”
he said flatly, after looking the paper
over. “And,” he added, pointing to a line
toward the end of the page, “it seems right
now.” They had given him just a few
davs to prepare.

With Jacques away, she found herself
becoming short-tempered and unhappy.
One day, when she was alone in her Paris
apartment, she agreed to see a reporter.
“Are you pleased about the coming
birth?” he’d asked.

She’d been so upset, she’d complained,
“I don’t find it much of a joke and I will
never have a baby again!”

And then, all through those crisp au-
tumn days, at a time when she should
have been happiest, she had to fight —
fight what seemed like a losing battle.
Jacques had developed a nervous illness
soon after he went into the army. Some-
how, she couldn’t help feeling responsible.
Part of the trouble was simply that he
was married to her, that his bunk-mates’
teasing about her had been more than
any man could take. His transfer to a
hospital and apparent lack of sense of duty,
had been so sharply criticized by nearly
everyone in France, that she had felt it
up to her to say something, to stand by her
husband, to show people that he wasn’t
a shirker, that he really was ill and could
not serve. But was the turmoil good for
her health? For the baby? It seemed
that her pregnancy had been doomed from
the start.

Her mind kept going back to that ter-
rible day from which, it seemed, her faith
in him would never recover . . . the day
when she’d heard that, while in the army,
Jacques had tried to slash his wrists. Yet,
on that day, it had suddenly all seemed
to make sense. Maybe he’d been unsure
of himself from the start of their marriage.
Hadn’t he had endless battles, all summer
and fall, against the intrusion of newsmen,
of anyone connected with her career (was

he frightened, perhaps, that his own
brief movie career might be over?) Often,
he’d pleaded with her to give up acting
and for them to live quietly together in
the south of France.

The weeks of battling with the army
and even with questions asked in the
French National Assembly, seemed, to
Brigitte, to last forever. But finally they
won . . . won a medical deferment for
Jacques for at least a year. Maybe now,
things would change.

With Jacques home, life, for a few weeks,
became more pleasant again. They even
decided upon names for the baby: Nicolas
if it were a boy — since the birth would
come soon after Christmas — and Marie-
Noel for a girl: Marie, because Brigitte
had always adored the name, and Noel
... well, also because it was Christmas.
But their own relationship soon faltered
again, becoming worse as the weeks went
by. Did she want a baby now? . . .

Soon after Brigitte finished her coffee
her sister, Mijanou, who’d stayed with
her, said softly, “I’m going home now.
I’m a little tired. But if anything happens,
you can be sure I’ll be back.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Brigitte an-
swered.

That evening, Jacques read to Brigitte —
a few chapters from “For Whom the Bell
Tolls” by Ernest Hemingway — to pass
away the time and to make her forget her
fears. Yet, instead of easing the tension,
the story — about a group of men doomed
to die — only seemed to add to it. Every
mention of violence and pain seemed to
affect Brigitte.

At one point she shuddered violently.
To her, at that moment, it seemed every-
thing that had happened that day was a
portent of something horrible that was to
I come, until she had worked herself to a
point of panic.

Jacques, noticing her frightened look,
put down the book. “Why don’t you go to
bed early,” he said kindly. “And please
don’t worry so much — please.”

“All right,” she agreed, smiling weakly.
And Jacques helped her up and walked
with her to the bedroom.

Then, just as he was on his way back to
the living room, he heard a scream. He ran
back, pushed open the door and saw that
Brigitte was standing by the bed, clutch-
ing onto the wooden end for support, her
face screwed up as though in violent pain.
“Jacques!” she gasped. “I think ... I
think it is time.”

Without even stopping to answer,
Jacques hurried over to the telephone by
the bed to call the doctor. His words were
brief and to the point. Then, running back
toward the door, he called Moussia, who
was to be the new baby’s nurse, to come to
Brigitte.

Within what seemed like minutes, a car
had pulled up at the door. In it were Dr.
Boisnet, who was to make the delivery,
with a midwife and the anesthetist. After
them came another doctor and yet a third,
all of whom were to help with the birth.

Gently, the nurse, with Jacques’ help,
took Brigitte down to the delivery room,
down the tiny private staircase between
the two floors of the apartment. All the
while, she was trying to smile, to look con-
fident and yet it was almost impossible.
“I’ll be fine,” she whispered to Jacques as
he sat her down on a couch by the door
of the room. But her face betrayed her
real feelings.

It was just after midnight.

Since he wanted to be present at the
birth, they dressed Jacques in a white coat.
Then they explained to Brigitte just how
she could help them . . . and help herself.
Then they asked her to come over to the
table. Jacques, who had promised to be
beside her all the time, came toward the

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table, too, and held her hand. Yet, as he
watched his wife’s agony, beads of sweat
began to form on his forehead. He stayed
by her just long enough to watch them
give her a sniff of chloroform and see one
of the doctors take a pair of forceps in his
hand.

Then Jacques disappeared from beside
the table.

He spent the rest of the time sitting on
the couch by the door.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a baby
crying. It brought Jacques sharply
back to reality. He got up to walk over
and see his new baby. But, before he got
there, one of the doctors put a hand on
his shoulder. “You have a fine son,” he
told him. And Jacques smiled proudly.

Together, they peeped over the midwife’s
shoulder as she gave the tiny child his first
bath and watched as she put him into a
specially prepared oxygen tent as a pre-
caution for a little while.

Jacques, fighting back tears, walked over
to Brigitte who was still sleepy from
the anesthetic. “It’s a boy,” he whispered.
“A fine, wonderful boy!”

“Please, I want to see him,” she said
weakly. “Bring him here.”

And they brought the baby to her; a
tiny boy with deep blue eyes and black
hair.

“He’s strong,” she said, as the baby
clutched her finger. And she smiled a
happy, radiant smile of a woman who has
just become a mother. Then, gently, they
took the baby from her and she fell asleep.

Early the next morning, Jacques walked
into the bedroom and sat down quietly, on
the edge of his wife’s bed, watching her
as she lay asleep between crisp, clean
violet-patterned sheets. She had on a deli-
cate nightgown of pale blue lace and, as
she slept, he thought that he had never
seen her look more peaceful or lovely than
she did then.

She seemed to sense that he was there
and, blinking a few times, she moved
around and then opened her eyes. “Hello,”
she said sleepily.

“Bring the baby,” he called to the nurse.
Sitting up in bed, the sunlight just catch-
ing her light auburn hair, she held her
arms out for their baby and, smiling to it,
her eyes sparkling with a warmth and
softness he had never seen before, he felt
a tremendous happiness he could see she
shared too.

“And to think I was afraid to have a
baby,” she said, looking over at Jacques.
He handed her a magnificent bouquet of
violets which, earlier, he had placed on a
table by the bed — her favorite flower.

And, at that moment, it seemed as
though their marriage could be saved.
“Let’s get away for a while — just alone to-
gether,” suggested Jacques. Brigitte smiled
and nodded her head in agreement.

So they went up to a little mountain re-
sort in the French Alps, to try to recapture
the romance of their honeymoon. But it
didn’t seem to do any good. Brigitte hated
the cold and the snow. She did not ski and
so, with time on their hands, they found
themselves arguing again . . . and still
mainly about her career. She was due to
report for a new picture and Jacques was
not at all pleased about it. He was still
very jealous and Brigitte became impa-
tient. There was a rumor that she had in-
sisted on doing the picture because she
felt that now, with Jacques’ career some-
what at a standstill, she was responsible
for supporting their child.

Still fighting, they returned home to
Nicolas. But once home, it seemed even
little Nicolas might not be able to save
their marriage . . . — ELAINE BLAKE

BE SURE TO SEE BRIGITTE BARDOT AND JACQUES
CHARRIER IN COL.’s “BABETTE GOES TO WAR.”

JOAN CAULFIELD

Continued from page 75

. . . Again and again, she relives the
agony . . .

She remembers the day she clenched
her hands tightly around the wheel of the
car. The desert road ahead, parched and
dusty in the heat of the afternoon, stretched
endlessly before her. There seemed, along
with the vastness, an aloneness in driving
that road, and if it weren’t for the com-
forting chatter of her friend Elaine, sitting
next to her, she knew she would have
been afraid.

Slowly, she put her foot further down
on the accelerator to gain speed, taking
one hand off the wheel, just for a second,
to brush away a wisp of hair that had
blown in her face. Then she slowed down
. . . she realized she was in no hurry to
get anywhere. But as she did, she heard
Elaine cry out, “Joan! Look out! Look out!”

Frantically, she tried to peer through the
dust that whirled across the road. What
she saw made her gasp. Another car, not
twenty feet away, was headed straight for
them. She swung her car as far to the side
as she could, trying to avoid an impact.
But it was too late.

Twenty minutes later, the police found
them. Elaine was badly hurt and stunned —
having been hurled against the windshield.
Joan’s mouth had a deep gash and her
body was covered with cuts and bruises.
The other car was demolished but, by
some twist of fate, the driver, who was
later found to be drunk, came out unin-
jured. Joan and Elaine were rushed to a
hospital.

For days, Joan was in a state of shock.
Everything seemed even worse for she
realized then, that she had no one to turn
to, that she was all alone.

Throughout her life, she had always
had someone to cling to at times when
trouble arrived — first her mother and
father, and then her husband, producer
Frank Ross. Yet, now, far from home and
very recently divorced, Joan Caulfield
was having her first taste of real loneli-
ness. She was frightened, and, as the days
progressed, her loneliness was to become
far worse.

Her injuries didn’t heal as fast as the
doctors had originally predicted, and
sometimes at night she would wake up,
her body in a cold sweat, having dreamed
about the accident; reliving that second
of terror all over again. And when she
was fully awake she’d feel even deeper
panic for, again, there was no one to com-
fort her — no one to assure her it was only
a dream . . . and it was over.

She felt pain so long after the accident
and so long after she was released from the
hospital, that one day she went back to her
doctor. “I think I may have strained myself
in the crash,” she told him. “Perhaps you
can give me something for it.”

The doctor examined her and, when the
examination was over, he sat down at his
desk. Joan noticed there was a smile on
his previously serious face. “The only
trouble with you,” he told her, “is that
you’re four months pregnant!”

She looked at him, unbelievingly. “It
can’t be! Are you positive?” she was as-
tonished— and afraid.

“There’s no doubt at all.”

Joan lowered her head. She didn’t want
the doctor to see the tears in her eyes. It
all seemed like a bad joke. She’d wanted
so much to have a baby during her nine
years of marriage, yet she’d had one mis-
carriage after another, once after she’d
been carrying the baby for five whole
months. And now — now that she and Frank
were divorced, now that she was all alone —

now she was pregnant. It was a bad dream.

She got up from the chair, thanked the
doctor, and walked blindly out of his office,
carrying with her news that would have
made most women happy, news that would
have sent a woman running home to tell
her husband he was going to be a father.
But Joan Caufield had no one to run
home to.

She hailed a taxi and drove home to the
new house in Beverly Hills she had moved
to after her divorce. Fumbling in her
purse for her key, she walked in,
took off her hat and gloves and sat down
on the sofa — and cried. Again there was no
one to comfort her tears — there was only
the stillness of large empty rooms,
which, in their silence, seemed to mock.
And in that moment of terrible loneli-
ness, she came to a decision. She must
get out of there.

So a few months later, she moved into
a smaller hilltop house which had once
been owned by John Barrymore; a
picturesque little house with an old Italian
sundial in the middle of a swimming
pool; a house in which she’d try to find a
new life for herself and the child she was
carrying within her.

But it was the same. Night after night,
there was still that familiar silence which
seemed to envelop everything. “I was nice
and miserable all by myself,” Joan ad-
mitted. “I stayed at home and watched
myself lose my figure. I ate and ate and
got fatter and fatter. I found that loneli-
ness can be like a disease. It eats away at
your self-respect, your love of life, and
even your will to live.”

She was terrified of being alone, and
being with people didn’t always help
either. “An unkind remark from someone,”
she said, “would plunge me into depres-
sion. I was terribly sensitive. I made my
own hell.

“Besides developing an enormous
appetite, I developed jealousy. I made life
miserable for Frank whenever we met. I
would repeat the stories I’d read in the
paper that he was going with other wom-
en. Naturally, he’d get angry and we'd
always end up knowing it was better for
us not to see each other again.”

Joan’s jealousy prompted her, one day, to
accept a date with an acquaintance, Jack
Ellis, for the premiere of “Porgy and
Bess.” But the evening only made her
more unhappy. “It was a compete failure,”
she recalls. “I hardly knew Jack and I
was obviously very pregnant. I couldn’t
dance, I couldn’t do anything. How can a
pregnant woman go out on dates? We
both had a miserable time.”

The last six weeks were the most terri-
fying. “I was so heavy, I could scarcely
get around,” she says. Time seemed in-
terminable. She began to wonder more
and more about the child that she was to
bring into the world. The child who would
grow up without a father.

One evening, before going to bed, she
sat. down at her desk in the corner of the
living room, and wrote a letter to Frank.
She tried to avoid the true reason for
writing, but then, drawing a deep breath,
she finally wrote the words that had been
bothering her for almost five months. “Do
you really think, Frank,” she wrote, “that
now, with the baby coming, we should go
through with the final divorce? Can a baby
save our marriage?”

It was the closest she ever came to ask-
ing him to come back to her.

Hurriedly, before she had time to change
her mind, she sealed the letter and
walked down to the mailbox at the corner
of the street. Then she went back home
to wait for his reply.

The next day came and went without
an answer. So did the next, and the one
after that.

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CITY STATE J

’ 89

Then, one morning, just as she was mak-
ing breakfast, she heard footsteps outside
her door. She peered through a front
window and saw it was the mailman with
a letter.

She felt her hands shake as a few mo-
ments later she ripped it open. Her eyes
skimmed over the page. One line in
particular seemed to stand out from all
the rest: . . . “and so yon only want me
back because of loneliness, Joan, not
love . .

And she knew, deep down, it was true.
She couldn’t cling to something past as an
escape from a problem ... an escape from
loneliness ... an escape from fear. The
past was over. She had to find the answer
to her problems within herself. For her
and Frank, their marriage was in the
nast. They had met rather casually, in
1950, at the Bel-Air golf club, at a time
when she was just beginning to make
films. Joan had been a Broadway star for
many years and he a well-known, success-
ful producer.

“I was never much interested in her,”
Frank recalled later. “She looked too
healthy — too much like a member of the
4H Club.”

Then they met again at a party at Ro-
manoffs. Perhaps she had looked more
mature, more sophisticated . . . Anyway,
Frank asked to see her. They saw each
other often, after that meeting, and, in a
few months, their romance had progressed
“to thoughts of marriage.” On the surface,
they seemed like the perfect match, even
though Frank was eighteen years older
than she was. He was secure and pros-
perous as a producer, having just finished
making “The Robe.” She, at the time, was
starring in “My Favorite Husband,” which
was making a hit. They both had a
common interest . . .

Yet, now, it seemed that it was this
common interest that was to be their big
problem. Sometime after their marriage,
they did a TV series together. It was called
“Sally,” but it seemed ill-fated from the
very start.

“We^were in a state of continuous irri-
tation,” she recalls today. “I blamed
Frank, as producer of the show, for all its
shortcomings. He had to prepare scripts
ahead, but I never had time to read them
until the Sunday before I’d start shooting.
I’d say how bad I thought they were, and
he d say, why didn’t I read them sooner.

I couldn’t. I just had too much to do.

“We worked holidays and all around the
clock. We couldn’t even eat together,
because he got home at six while I ar-
rived at eight. When we did see each
other, it was usually to bring up some
complaint or other.

“I was half-owner of the show and I
felt I should be treated accordingly. I
wanted the recognition. I needed it. Frank
treated me like a child and, the more he
did, the more I acted like one. I know
actors suffer from over-emotionalism, but
I was giving more than my share.”

When the show was finally dropped
by the sponsor, Frank and Joan decided
to take a vacation in Hawaii to try to heal
the hurt. But the arguing continued and
gradually they seemed to drift apart.
Even on their one common interest, they
couldn’t seem to agree.

Eventually, Frank began spending more
time at the golf course, and she be-
came lonely, and withdrew into a
shell. She rattled around the huge house
—the house she hated. Frank had built
it while she was busy with “My Favorite
Husband,’ without even consulting her.
p Nothing had been done to her liking. He
hadn’t even confided in her on this.

It was too big and cold,” she recalls.
“Even when we were both at home, we’d

seem to lose each other. If I thought of
something to say to Frank, I’d have to walk
over a mile of marble to find him. So,
instead, I’d just skip telling him. It
was just no good.”

And so, early in 1959, they both de-
cided on a divorce. Neither was happy.
She remembered Frank saying, “I’d like to
keen the house,” and she replying bitterly,
“With pleasure!”

Looking back on her nine years of mar-
riage, she now thought the whole thing
was wrong from the very beginning.
“Frank was terribly independent,” she
recalls, “and I was terribly dependent
upon him. Somehow, my problems seemed
bigger than his. I needed him, but I don’t
think he ever needed me. A woman must
feel she’s needed, I think, or she feels
something’s missing — as though her life
isn’t being fulfilled.”

And so they went to court as man and
wife, got the preliminary divorce, and
came out to find separate worlds. Frank
went off to Europe and she decided to go
down to the desert for a rest and try to
forget.

It was then that the accident occurred
and she found out from the doctor that
she was pregnant. Frantic, she thought
of a reconciliation, for the baby’s sake,
but, today, she realizes it would never have
worked. A baby can’t save a marriage.

All her mental distress must have had
an effect upon her physical condition, be-
cause the baby failed to arrive on time.
She waited one week, then two and finally,
by the third, the doctors advised her to
enter the hospital. Late one night, a few
days afterward, she began suffering acute
labor pains. She tried to control herself,
but the pain was too great. She began
screaming and her voice echoed down
the hospital corridor and brought nurses
scurrying to her room. They found her
frantic with pain. Two surgical nurses
were summoned and labor was induced.
For eight long and terrifying hours, she
struggled against the pulsating pain.

Finally, when her energy seemed spent,
the doctors decided to deliver the baby
by Caesarean section. It was successful.
The baby was delivered, a fine healthy
boy but, because of complications, she
wasn’t the fine healthy mother she’d
expected to be. The doctors found she
had a blocked colon and she could tell by
their expressions that her condition was
now critical.

Life was a nightmare for the next four
days. A tube was inserted through her
nose to drain her stomach. It remained
there day and night, making her every
move a sharp stab of pain.

Throughout each day, she knew the
hurt of injections to feed her intraven-

ANNETTE

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PAUL

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ously. But, worst of all, she knew she
was alone and that she mattered to no
one. There was no husband at her side
to comfort her, no anxious new father
peering through the glass partition in the
nursery, proudly looking at his son, no
one waiting for her to get well. Although
Frank had come to the hospital, he now
seemed a stranger. They had been di-
vorced six months.

Joan had gone through the long months
of pregnancy by herself, but she had
never known such loneliness as now, as she
watched her husband close the door of
her hospital room and go away. She saw
no future. She was completely alone. . . .

Somehow, till then, ridiculous though
it was, she knew she’d been holding onto
Frank for the answer to her problems.
But lying there, she realized finally, in
one clean desperate moment, that Frank
could never help her.

As she heard his footsteps fade down
the quiet hospital corridor, she thought
she would scream out, in all her fear,
“Please, please help me.” But then a
strange thing happened ....

Something inside seemed to say, “Cling-
ing onto someone else won’t help you. You
must help yourself. You have to find the
strength within yourself.” She lay back
against the pillow, and began looking up
at the darting rays of light the moon was
throwing across the ceiling. She re-
membered something from the Bible,
something about helping yourself, and
almost without realizing it, she began to
pray. She didn’t remember how long
she prayed. All she knew was that a
short while later she felt tired, very
tired, and yet peaceful and she fell off
to sleep.

Suddenly, she felt a gentle hand on her
shoulder. She hadn’t heard anyone
come into the room. Looking up, she
saw it was her doctor. “Don’t be afraid,”
he said softly. “I’ll try to explain it all to
you. Your condition hasn’t changed and
I’m afraid we’ll have to operate tomorrow.
It’s nothing to worry about, though. You’ll
be all right.”

“I’m not afraid anymore, doctor,” Joan
answered. “I’ve been praying and I know
I’m going to get well. I believe it with
all my heart.” The doctor nodded, smiled
kindly and left the room. And she fell,
back once again into a deep and restful
sleep. And the next day, as if by a
miracle, her condition suddenly made
startling changes. By morning, she was
told she wouldn’t need an operation after
all. With plenty of care and rest, she’d
be all right.

“By praying,” Joan recalls today, “I
didn’t feel alone any more. Loneliness
and fear left me, and my pain seemed to
ease.

“Yes, I believe miracles can happen.
What’s more, I began to feel a real peace
such as I had never known before. I
cleared my conscience of all the jealousies
and petty thoughts, all the self-pity I’d
built up. And more important, I wasn’t
afraid of raising my baby any more. I
knew, then, I would be able to give my
child a deeper love, a mature love, a love
I’d wanted but couldn’t find before.

“I used to let loneliness rule my life,”
she continues. “But now I realize how
destructive it can be. It brings suffering
where suffering need not be. I wish I
could tell other women who know lone-
liness, how I’ve learned to overcome it.

“Prayer is within the reach of everyone.
It can solve loneliness. It can make you
feel thankful for the things you have.
Once you believe, you’ll never be lonely
again. . . because you’ve found the an-
swer and the peace within.”

—BOB THOMAS

PAT BOONE

Continued, from page 68

“Daddy, do you remember the night of the
fire when God waked me up and whis-
pered to me?” Cherry Boone asked her
father as she leaned out through the open
window of the car and looked up at him.
“I kept saying: ‘I can’t hear you, God.
Could you please talk a little louder?’
Why* did he speak so softly, Daddy?” she
repeated in a puzzled voice. “Why couldn’t
I hear him?”

She wasn’t sure — even now when she
was trying so hard — that she remembered
everything about that night but, just think-
ing about it, she got a funny twitching
feeling inside her stomach.

She almost never woke up during the
night. Eva, their nurse, who was really
their friend, always teased her and said
“the roof could fall down and Cherry
wouldn’t wake up!” That’s what made her
wonder what had waked her up that night.
Nobody else in the house was awake. At
first she wondered. Then she guessed it
must have been God. He must have
reached down and shaked her by the
shoulder and told her she had to get up,
because she did. She was dreaming she was
way out in the woods and it was fun until
the wind blew a great puff of smoke in
her face and she began to choke. That’s
when she woke up, but the dream seemed
to stay right with her.

“I smell a funny smell,” she said aloud
to four-year-old Lindy who was sleeping
in the other twin bed, but Lindy didn’t
answer. She sniffed a couple of more times
before sliding down under the blankets
and pulling the pink-and-white candy-
striped sheet way over her head. But the
smoky smell followed her under the covers
and tickled her nose and hurt her eyes.
She rubbed them hard with her fists and
that seemed to help but, when she stuck
her head out again, the hurt came right
back. She tried to decide what kind of
smell it was. It wasn’t like the marsh-
mallows Mommy roasted in the fireplace,
or the leaves Daddy burned in the back-
yard. “Nope,” she said, shaking her head
from side to side on her pillow, “it isn’t
like any smell I’ve ever smelled before.”

But something else was wrong — some-
thing she hadn’t noticed till now —
that made her forget all about the
smoke. “What’s happened to my night-
light?” she asked herself, sitting up straight
in her bed and trying to see around the
room that was as dark as the night out-
side the window. She couldn’t under-
stand— Mommy had turned the light on
when she said goodnight, just like always.
“Why did it go out?” she wondered and
sat so still, she didn’t even blink her eyes.
The house was so quiet. All she could
hear Were the little breathing noises Lindy
was making and they reminded her of
what Daddy had told her on Saturday.

Lindy had. fallen and scraped her knee
while they were playing tag and Daddy
had said in a serious voice. “You’re the
oldest girl in the family, Cherry, and
you’ve got to watch out for your sisters
and protect them.” That made her feel
big — too big to bother Mommy and Daddy
in the middle of the night. That was some-
thing only babies did. It was up to her—
after all she was 5V2 years old — to find out
what was wrong. She slid her legs over
the side of the bed until her toes touched
the fuzzy blue carpet that had smiling
kittens’ heads embroidered on it.

She gave her sagging pink pajamas a
sharp tug at the back and started to feel
her way over to the table that held the

nightlamp. She finally found the lamp and
then the switch and^ squeezing her eyes
shut tight because the light can hurt them
after you’va been in the dark too long, she
turned it . . . but the light didn’t come on.
She tried again and again but nothing
happened, just loud clicks in the quiet
room. So she turned around and tip-toed
past the toy chest, past Lindy ’s bed — paus-
ing a minute to make sure she was still
sleeping — to the door where the wall switch
was. She noticed the strip of light that
usually shone beneath the door was miss-
ing and wondered who had turned the
hall lights out.

Slowly her hand dropped from the wall
and she stood — feeling so much alone —
in the center of the darkness, rubbing
one bare foot against the other pajama
leg. “Oh, well,” she finally decided, “Daddy
will take care of everything. He always
does,” and started toward her bed.

But, then she remembered Daddy had
come home early that night because he
was sick and later, when they were going
upstairs to bed, Mommy had said: “Now
be nice and quiet. Daddy doesn’t feel well
and he took a pill to make him sleqp.”

“Maybe he’s sleeping too hard to wake
up,” she thought now and, for the first time,
she began to feel .frightened until she re-
membered that Mommy and Daddy had
always said: “If ever you’re scared or don’t
know what to do, Cherry, just say a little
prayer and God will help you.” “You’ll
help me,” she said, looking up above as
though she could see God. And, kneeling
down beside her bed, she buried her face
in her hands. “Please God, tell me what
to do,” she prayed. “My nightlight won’t
go on and I keep smelling a funny smell.

I think something’s wrong.” She tilted her
head to one side and listened hard, but
she didn’t hear anything. “I can’t hear
you, God,” she said finally. “Please, please,
God, talk louder.” She knew He must
want to tell her something because, after
all, hadn’t He wakened her?

She sat back on her heels and waited but
all she heard was the sound of Lindy
coughing in her sleep. “Maybe the smoke
is hurting her nose, too,” she thought and.
suddenly she knew what she must do. She
had to get help and the nearest person was
Eva. Eva had taken care of them ever
since Mommy was a little girl and she
knew about everything. Besides, she al-
ways kept a flashlight by her bed. When
they asked her why, she’d said: “Oh, just
in case. . . .”

She got to the door without stumbling
once and pulled it open. The hall smelled
so smoky and was so black and mysterious,
that she wanted to run right back to bed
and hide under the covers — but she didn’t.
Instead, she carefully closed the door be-
hind her and started across the hall to
where Eva slept.

Eva,” she called, not realizing what a
little whisper she made. Then, when
Eva didn’t answer, she tried again,
“Eva, Eva,” and her voice grew strong,
“Eva, wake up!”

She heard the rustle of sheets and a
loud yawn and then a familiar voice said
sleepily: “What’s the matter, honey, don’t
you feel well?”

“Oh, Eva,” she said, “something’s the

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matter. The lights are all out and there’s a
funny smell. . . .” By this time Eva’s
flashlight had found her and soon she felt
strong arms around her, protecting her.

“Everything’s all right, Cherry,” Eva
crooned soothingly and led her toward the
door for, by now, she had smelled the
smoke too. “Come on, we’ll find out what’s
wrong.” They went out into the hall and
it was then that Eva saw the smoke.

“You stay with Lindy in case she wakes
up,” Eva said, helping her back to her
room, “I’ll get your Mommy and Daddy
and then we’ll be right back for you.”

From her bed, she could hear Eva’s voice
calling down the hall: “Shirley! Shirley!
Pat!” and almost immediately the door of
her parents’ room opened and there was
the jumble of ladies’ voices talking quickly
and then someone — she thought it was
Eva — started coughing.

“We’d better hurry,” her mother said in
a loud, calm voice, that made everything
seem all right. “Eva, you take Laurie and
Debbie. Be sure they have their slippers
on. Better take some extra blankets, too.
I’ll wake Pat,” and her voice trailed off as
she went back into the bedroom, “and
we’ll get Cherry and Lindy.”

Minutes later, her mother came running
into their room, woke Lindy and wrapped
her up in blankets from the bed. Lindy
was so sleepy she didn’t even ask what
was happening. Then, Mommy came over
and rolled her up in blankets, too, and
lifted them both — like two roly-poly bears,
she thought.

“Press your faces against my shoulder
so the smoke won’t hurt you,” Mommy
told them. The smoke was so bad, her
eyes were crying.

Everybody was up by now. Down the
hall, in the nursery, Laurie was crying
because of all the excitement and Debbie
was asking Eva questions in a high, sleepy
voice. Their voices grew louder and she
knew that meant Eva was carrying them
out of the nursery and toward the staircase.

“Then she heard Daddy calling in the
dark, “Shirl, Shirl, where are you?” and
Mommy answered and soon she felt herself
lifted up in the air and into Daddy’s arms.

“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously,
putting his face against hers, and when he
was sure that Mommy and Laurie were all
right, too, he led them along the hall,
down the stairs and through the living
room. It was so smoky, they probably
couldn’t have seen even if the lights were
working.

Daddy unlocked the front door and soon
they were all safely outside on the
front steps and Daddy was telling
them to breathe deep to get rid of the bad
smoke in their lungs. At first, it hurt her
chest awfully but soon she felt better.

Daddy left her with Eva while he went
to the garage to get the car, and Mommy
went next door to the people’s house to
call the police. By the time she got back.
Daddy had them all bundled up in their
blankets in the car with the heater going.

But the night began to fill up pretty fast
as the policemen and firemen came clang-
ing up to the house. Nobody knew, then,
what was wrong so Daddy decided it’d be
safer if they all went down to the police
station while he stayed behind to help.

She whispered a quick prayer as they
drove along the quiet streets: “Please,
God, take care of my daddy for me. I had
to leave him behind,” and she felt better.

She’d never been in a police station
before — she didn’t tell anyone but she was
scared a little — but it turned out to be
very nice.

They made a party for them — of course
Laurie fell asleep and missed it all — with
milk and chocolate bars and even some
toys for Lindy and Debbie to play with.

After everything that had happened that
night, she felt too old for toys so instead
she talked to the dark-haired man who
sat behind the high desk and answered the
phones. “Lots of people must be in trouble
tonight like us,” she decided, because the
phones kept ringing.

Daddy came in later and started talking
to Mommy. She went over to hear. “It’s
all over now,” he was saying. “It seems
something happened to the heating unit
and the smoke and fumes were blown into
the air-conditioning pipe that’s right next
to it. The Fire Chief said the smoke must
have come out through the air-conditioning
vents in all the rooms. But it’s all right
now and we can go back home.”

Mommy,” she said, rubbing her head
against her mother’s side, “if I hadn’t
waked up, then would everybody
have kept on sleeping?”

Her mother knelt down and put her arms
around her and nodded yes. “Well, then,”
she’d asked, “does that mean I saved every-
body?”

“Yes, Cherry,” her mother answered
softly, “you did. I think God saw fit to
wake you up so that you could save all
of us.”

Then Daddy said, “Time to go home,
Cherry,” and he and Mommy went over
to wake up Laurie.

She remembered thinking, on the ride
home, “It was God who turned out the
lights so I’d know something was wrong,”
but she fell off to sleep before she could
tell Daddy.

But, the next day, she told him and she
asked, why did God talk so soft that she
couldn’t hear Him?

At first he didn’t answer, Then he said:
“But you did hear Him, Cherry, didn’t you?
How else would you have awakened and
known what to do?

“You know, Cherry, God doesn’t speak
to us in a loud voice that we can actually
hear, like you hear Mommy and me. He
speaks to us from inside ourselves, and
sometimes we just know things without
realizing that He’s guiding us.”

She leaned back against his shoulder and
twisted the little button that was coming
loose on the sleeve of his jacket, and
thought about what he’d said. Then, turn-
ing her head to one side so she could look
up at him without moving from inside his
arm, she asked: “But why couldn’t I see
Him either?”

Gently, with one finger, he smoothed
back a stray lock of hair that had
fallen across her forehead and an-
swered slowly: “We can’t see God, honey,
just the way you can’t see love although
you know you love Mommy and me. It’s
something you feel and that’s how we know
about God and that He’s with us.” His
hand lay still on her head and he was
silent for a few minutes, then he asked:
“Remember the time we were all flying
home from California, Cherry, and the
plane was so high up that all we could see
were puffy white clouds? And you said if
only you could reach out and put your
hand through one of those clouds you
knew you would touch God?”

She remembered. “Well, that’s one way
of seeing God and feeling that He’s watch-
ing over us. If we’re good and try hard to
live the way He wants us to, He’ll always
be there when we need Him. Just as He
was on the night of the fire. Do you
understand, Cherry? If you know how to
look, you can see something of God in all
the beautiful things He’s put into this
world.”

She nodded her head. She understood.

LEE SILVIAN

SEE “THE PAT BOONE CHEVY SHOWROOM”
THUR., 9-9:30 P.M., EST. PAT SINGS ON DOT.

DORIS DAY

Continued from page 67

I had never dreamed I’d ever get to
meet Doris in person. After all, when
you’re only seventeen and attending high
school in Connecticut, Hollywood and film
stars seem like a million miles away.

That’s why I could hardly believe it
when the woman I baby-sit for told me
what had happened. She’d heard that
Doris Day was due to come to a nearby
town on location, and then, without telling
me anything about it, she had written to
a friend in Hollywood, explaining to him
how much I admired Doris and asking if
he could arrange for us to meet when
Doris was in town. Not only did Doris say
yes, but she set an appointment right then
and there through the friend.

I was so excited, I walked around in a
daze for weeks.

Getting dressed the morning we were to
meet was a real problem, because I wanted
to wear something she’d like and I just
couldn’t seem to make up my mind. I’d
read she likes tailored clothes but not low-
cut necklines or chunky jewelry. So,
finally, I decided on a simple skirt and
blouse. And wouldn’t you know it? My
hair just simply refused to behave! I had
also read that Doris was a real stickler for
personal neatness, so I brushed and
brushed and sprayed and sprayed until I
was sure every strand was in place.

Then I took a bus to the next town
where we had our appointment.

The movie company was setting up a
scene in the town square when I arrived,
and I looked around for Doris Day.

“Can I help you, miss?” said a voice
suddenly.

It was a man standing near me on the
set, so I thought he must be connected
with the picture. I told him who I was and
why I was there.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Doris told us all to
be on the lookout for you. She’s very anx-
ious to meet you. Come on, you can
watch her do a scene and then I’ll take
you down to see her.”

The man told me his name was Eddie
and he was the still photographer assigned
to the picture.

He introduced me to director Richard
Quine and to the camera crew. “But
where’s Doris Day?” I asked. “I don’t see
her.”

“She’s parked around the corner in a
station wagon,” Eddie explained. “She’s
supposed to be very angry in this scene,
and she’s about to drive up to the general
store to tell someone off.”

It was a real store, too, but the man
who owned it was letting them use it for
the picture.

Then, the next moment, the cameras
started rolling and I got my very first
glimpse of Doris Day. I don’t think I’ll
ever forget it, either. As I said, she scared
me half to death!

Just as Eddie had told me, the station
wagon came tearing around the corner
and, sure enough, there was Doris behind
the wheel — but, after the first look, I felt
something awful was going to happen.

“She’s going too fast!” someone shouted.
“She won’t be able to stop in time!”

I held my breath, watching as Doris
tried to pull up in front of the store. I
could see, by the look on her face and by
how stiffly she was clutching the wheel,
that something surely wasn’t right. A sud-
den silence swept around the group and
we all stood watching.

“What can it be? What’s gone wrong?”
Eddie muttered beside me.

I was so terrified I closed my eyes tight
as I heard the screeching of brakes and
a loud crash. When I looked again, people
were running across the square toward the
station wagon which had hit a display
rack. But nobody said anything. It seemed
as though everyone had suddenly been
struck dumb by fright.

Then, before they could reach it, the
door of the station wagon flew open and
Doris Day climbed out. She looked a little
pale but was obviously unhurt and she
waved to the camera crew, calling, “I’m
all right. Don’t worry, I’m not used to this
car and my foot must have slipped.”

“Women drivers!” someone near me
grumbled in relief.

“Hot-rodder!” teased another.

Doris laughed and waved again. Then
she disappeared inside the store, saying to
another fellow, “I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“That’s quite a gal,” Eddie said, turning
to me. “Nobody but Doris could come out
of a thing like that grinning. But you’ll
find out for yourself what she’s like when
you meet her. Come on.”

She was sitting on the counter when I
walked into the store, and she looked more
like a teenager than a movie star, dressed
in blue pedal pushers, a plaid shirt and
sneakers. And she was even prettier than
she is on the screen.

“Hi,” she called brightly. “I’ll bet you’re
Elva Newman.”

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I tried to say something, to remember all
the things I wanted to tell her and ask
her, but I just stood there feeling kind
of numb all over.

“Well, I certainly am glad to meet you,
Elva,” said Doris, who was not in the least
put out by my silence. “I’ve really been
looking forward to it. Tell me, have you
really seen all my pictures four times as
I was told?”

“Yes,” I blurted.

Then she gave me such a big, warm,
friendly smile that I felt kind of a glow all
over and got up enough courage to hand
her the two boxes I had brought.

“You have something for me?” she
asked. “Well, you didn’t have to do that.”

I was glad I had, though, because she
looked so happy as she opened the first
box.

“Oh!” she squealed. “Yellow roses!
Thank you, Elva!”

I could see when she held them close to
her that I had been right in choosing them.
They had looked so bright and fresh and
sunny in the florist’s window that they
reminded me instantly of her.

“And what’s this?” she asked as she
opened the second, smaller box. “Home-
made fudge! I haven’t had homemade
fudge in ages, and I adore it!” She popped
a piece into her mouth. “Mmm! This is
fabulous,” she said.

Then, Doris took me over to her dress-
ing room for a Coke. “So we can sit down
and talk without being interrupted, and
get to know each other better,” she told
me.

The dressing room turned out to be just
a big, blue trailer and I was surprised. I
told her I had expected her to have a real
fancy dressing room.

“Well, I have kind of a fancy one back
at the studio in Hollywood,” she said.
“But, anyway, this trailer certainly beats
the very first dressing room I ever had.”

She told me that, when she was just
about my age — seventeen — and got her
first singing job in a night club, near her
hometown of Cincinnati, Ohio, she and her
mother carried her gown all the way from
home, thinking she was supposed to dress
there.

When they asked the bandleader where
her dressing room was, he said, “There’s
no such thing. We all dress before we get

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V —

here. A dressing room!” He was startled.

So Doris had to put her gown on in the
tiny powder room, which had just been
freshly painted and still had a lot of paint
cans all over the floor.

“And poor Mom had to hold the door
shut so no one could get in,” she laughed.

She fixed us a Coke in the tiny kitchen
at the back and we sat down at the table.

“We could talk in the main room where
I dress, if you’d rather,” she said.

“Oh, no. This is fine,” I told her.

“Good. I love kitchens, even if I do hate
to cook. I just like them for sitting around
in. You know, back home in Cincinnati the
kitchen was the center of the whole house.

“When I was going to high school there,
my cousin Ginnie used to come over with
my girlfriends and we’d just sit around
the table for hours and talk. Mom always
had to throw us out when she was ready
to cook supper.”

“What did you talk about?” I asked,
wondering if they were the same things
my friends and I discussed.

“Movie stars, mostly,” she said. “I had
a real mad crush on Clark Gable, I re-
member, and I got his name into the con-
versation as often as possible.

“Boy, was 1 a movie fan!” she continued.
“Still am, for that matter. When I started
making ‘Teacher’s Pet’ with Clark, I was
so thrilled I felt as though I were high
school age again. And he was every bit as
nice as I had imagined him to be.”

It seemed funny to hear her say things
like that — so naturally. Why, she sounded
just like my friends at school. Doris Day,
I discovered, was a person you could really
talk to and feel at ease with — like a best
friend or a big sister.

Suddenly, I decided to tell her about a
problem that had been bothering me. I
had never discussed it with anyone be-
fore, not even my parents, but I felt sure
Doris would understand and not laugh at

me.

“I’d like to get your opinion about some-
thing,” I told her.

“I’ll certainly be glad to answer,” she
said seriously.

“Well, I want to quit school and go to
New York and become a model,” I said.
“Do you think that’s a good profession?”

“I think it’s a wonderful profession,”
said Doris softly. “In fact, I think you’d
make a very good model with proper
training and guidance. But quit school?
That’s something else again. I think that’s
the craziest, most foolhardy thing you
could do. I left school early because I
loved to dance and sing and now I regret
it.”

She gazed thoughtfully out the window,
and went on, “If I were seventeen again,
and had my whole future ahead of me,
like you have, I’d go out of my way to
learn from those I admire. I’d want to go
on and finish my education. You know,
hindsight is the most useless thing in the
world. It’s like when I watch a movie I’ve
made. I can see all the mistakes and I can’t
go back and correct them. All I can do is
try to avoid making the same ones in the
future.”

She turned from the window and looked
right at me.

“If I were seventeen again,” she went
on, “I’d take advantage of every minute of
it, of all the wonderful things life offers
you then, and never offers you again.

“The teen years are the years in which
we begin to mold ourselves into the kind
of people we’re going to be in the future.
We develop ourselves as individuals.

“If I were your age, I’d look at myself
as objectively as possible, select all my
good points and do my best to emphasize
them. As for my bad points, what I
couldn’t discard, I’d try to improve, by

watching the people I admire — like movie
stars — and copy the way they walk or
speak or dress.

“But, most of all, I think I’d try to be
happy and spread that happiness among
as many people as possible. People will al-
ways remember you for the happiness you
give them and it’s the best way I know of
for making lifelong friends.”

I thought of all the happy faces I’d seen
ai-ound the set, and all the laughter I’d
heard, and of Doris Day, herself, looking
glad just to be alive.

“And you’ll be surprised when what you
give comes back to you in many different
ways,” she continued. “By all means, be-
come a model — and I hope you’ll become a
famous and successful one — but don’t give
up the most important years of your life
for success. Be happy now, try making
others happy now, and make as many
friends as you can. Don’t let your success
be a lonely one.”

I wondered if she might be referring to
her own life because, before her present
marriage to Marty Melcher, which I’m
sure makes her happy, I think she had had
a difficult time. I’d read that she went into
two other marriages which both ended in
divorce, and has devoted a great deal of
her energy and time to a career which, I
guess, can get lonely fighting for some-
thing all alone. And something she once
told a reporter came to mind as she spoke.
She’d said, “If I had stayed in Cincinnati,
everything would probably have been
nothing but one long smile.” But if Doris
has had problems, she certainly doesn’t let
them shout.

I asked her about her son, who I know is
about the same age as I. “Oh, he’s fine,”
she laughed. “But he wouldn’t have
been very proud of his mother’s driving if
he’d seen me this morning!”

I asked her to tell me about herself . . .
the things she likes, what she doesn’t like.
She said, “Okay. I think the first thing is
the outdoors. I love to go for long walks,
play tennis or volleyball. And I love trees.
Does that sound strange? Late at night I
love to lie in bed and gaze at the sycamore
tree that sweeps past my bedroom window.
I’m sure that tree must be over one hun-
dred years old and I think how beautiful
it is and what a perfect pattern there is in
the shape of its leaves and branches.

“I remember when I was small, I used
to love the visits we made to a farm owned
by a relative in Trenton, Ohio. I guess I’m
a country girl at heart. There was an old
couple who lived next door in a tiny house,
who worked on the farm, and I used to
peek in their windows to spy on them.
Wasn’t that awful? But their way of life
appealed to me so.

“What don’t I like? I don’t like wearing
makeup. Really. And telephones. But Mar-
ty says that for somebody who claims to
dislike phones, I certainly spend a lot of
time talking on them!

ANSWERS TO LAST MONTH’S PUZZLE

’l

’m

G -

“But I do love ice ceam and we’ve got
a soda bar at our new home in Beverly
Hills instead of a regular one!”

I laughed.

Doris was smiling again, that big, beau-
tiful smile.

“You know,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind
being a model myself. Just think of all
those gorgeous clothes they get to wear!”

“You get to wear some awfully pretty
clothes in your pictures,” I told her. “Like
that black sheath in ‘Teacher’s Pet.’ ”

“Oh, did you like that dress, too?” asked
Doris. “You know, the studio let me keep
it after the picture was finished because I
loved it so.”

She laughed again and leaned very close
to me as though she were going to tell me
a secret.

“Do you know what I’m going to do
someday?” she whispered. “I’m going to
make a picture and really go hog-wild on
the clothes. I’m going to have the biggest,
juciest wardrobe you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“And you’ll still tell me you haven’t a
thing to wear!” said her husband, Martin
Melcher, who was standing in the door-
way. He was tall and very good looking.

He came over and kissed her on the
cheek. Then Doris introduced me to him,
and he shook hands with me and also
asked me if I had really seen all his wife’s
pictures four times. You could tell, from
the way he looked at her, that he loved
her very much and was awfully proud of
her.

“They want you back on the set, Dodo,”
he told her.

She put her arm around me as we left
the trailer and, while we walked back
to the town square, she was munching
on another piece of my fudge.

“You know,” she said, “you’ve simply
got to give me the recipe. I’ve never tasted
anything so good. Why don’t you come out
again tomorrow and bring it with you?”

“I guess I’ll have to mail it,” I told her
sadly. “I’m leaving for my grandmother’s
farm in Maine in the morning.”

“Hey, does your grandmother have a
real, honest-to-goodness farm?” Doris
asked excitedly. And I remembered her
words about farms. “Oh, I wish I were go-
ing with you. Maybe sometime, when
you’re going again, you’d let me go along,
too.”

Would I!

And I know everyone would love her,
too, because she’s so friendly and nice. I
thought, no matter where she went, she’d
fit right in and make it a happier place
just by being there.

When we got back to the general store,
Doris asked Eddie, the photographer, to
take some pictures of the two of us.

“Now, don’t look right at the camera,”
she told me. “If you’re going to be a mod-
el, this will be a good trick for you to
learn. See those soup cans over in the
corner? Look at them, instead. Photos al-
ways come out better if you’re not looking
at the camera.”

Then I told her the thing I had been
saving for last.

“When I do become a model,” I said,
“I’m going to change my name to ‘Julie,’
because that was my favorite Doris Day
movie.”

She stared at me for a long, long time
and her eyes got kind of misty looking —
and then she hugged me.

“That’s just about the nicest compli-
ment I’ve ever received!”

And then I had to say goodbye . . . vow-
ing I’d see her pictures six times from
now on. The End

SEE DORIS DAY IN “PLEASE DON’T EAT THE
DAISIES” FOR M-G-M. SHE SINGS FOR COL.
WATCH FOR HER IN U.I.’S “MIDNIGHT LACE.”

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Continued from page 46

her way up the narrow aisle to where he
stood and, as she reached him, her head
turned in his direction and she gave him a
full, warm smile. Then, in a gesture of
simple modesty, she lowered her head
again, just a little and looked toward the
altar.

The service had begun. Around them,
in the pews, the guests had settled down.
It had become still again and even though
Evy was now by his side and holding
tightly onto his hand, he felt as though he
were in a little world all of his own . . .
apart from everyone there. He felt a
numbness, a reaction to the situation
which seemed to cut him off from any-
thing else that had happened that day. He
tried to listen to the words of the priest
but he found it impossible. He couldn’t
concentrate. They were being married,
finally; it was all he could think of. So
many good people had said it would never
come to pass. So many friends had ad-
vised them against the marriage.

The priest motioned for them to kneel
and, as he and Evy kneeled in prayer
before the altar banked with white gladi-
oli, with the February sunlight stream-
ing through the tall, stained-glass windows
of the chapel, he asked God, with all his
heart, to make their marriage last. It had
to last. Then he turned his head slightly
to look at Evy. Everything seemed so still,
so holy. She knelt motionless, deep in
prayer. Her eyes filled with tears. . . .

Like the first time he’d noticed her on
the Columbia lot, the day she had been
asked to talk about her Danish back-
ground, as an exercise in front of the
drama class. She’d faltered, stumbling
over words because she was so unsure of
her English. The other students had be-
come bored and shuffled around in their
seats until Evy could try no more. She
stopped short, finally asking the teacher
to let her sit down. He had felt so sorry
for her that, after class, he’d gone up to
ask her if she’d like to take a look at
his sports car.

Her eyes had filled with tears. His in-
terest had been so unexpected. And his
thoughtfulness had almost made her cry,
she told him later.

And that had been the start of it all.

But they had had problems right from

the beginning, too; problems which now,
as he stood at the altar, made him realize
that this day should be a very serious
and thoughtful one for him.

For one, he’d met Evy very soon after
the breakup of his first marriage. He’d
left behind him a wife and a baby son.
He still had responsibilities toward them.
He couldn’t forget the pitfalls that waited
for a man and a woman, even when there
was love. For it had been too much love
which had partly destroyed his first mar-
riage— a marriage which had been rushed
into in the haste of teenage years. When
it broke up, he’d said, “We were both
very young and insecure and we de-
pended and leaned on each other so much
that our love became desperate. We were
afraid of standing alone and this can be
a dangerous thing.” In that marriage he’d
come to know, too, that love and sincerity
are not enough. He and Gloria had both
wanted the marriage to last but finally
it had become impossible. Growing up,
they had grown apart. They had given in
to each other so much that they had
begun to lose their individuality. They
had both felt bewildered, lost.

Would it happen again? Friends had
speculated, concerned that Jim had per-
haps not given himself enough time be-
fore plunging into another serious rela-
tionship. And when other people are so
skeptical, it is often hard to remain sure
of oneself.

And if this wasn’t enough, the studio
had also been against Evy — but for dif-
ferent reasons. They did not want them
to be seen publicly together because
executives had wanted each of them free
for personal appearances and specially
pre-arranged publicity dates. They had to
see each other secretly, in out-of-the-way
places where they wouldn’t be recognized.

But, after four or five months of this,
he had begun to feel funny, strange, is if
he were doing something wrong. But was
it wrong to see someone you loved, some-
one whose smile made you forget all the
rough spots of each day, someone whose
hand you wanted to touch because it
made you feel alive?

One day, without telling Evy and feel-
ing fed up, he decided to tell the execu-
tives, outright, about the way he felt.

A secretary ushered him into a pine-
paneled office, but then, as he stood by the
door, he didn’t know if he could go
through with what he intended. But he
was determined to try. So he walked over
and sat down in front of the vice-presi-

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dent and blurted out quickly, “I just
want to say that I’m deeply in love with
Evy Norlund, and that I intend to marry
her, and that I can’t hold back my feel-
ings in public any longer.”

Expecting a harsh reply, he’d been
shocked by the man’s calm, understanding
manner.

“We don’t want to tell you how to run
your life, Jim,” he’d said. “If you and Evy
feel so strongly about each other, then we
have no right to tell you not to see each
other. But, please do me one favor. And
I’m talking to you now like a father. Don’t
rush into marriage. Get to know each
other well. Marriage will come — in time.
But don’t be hasty about something
that’s sacred, something that’s a lifetime
thing . . .”

Yet another person was warning him.

For richer or poorer, for better or
worse.” The priest’s voice sounded
loud in the quiet of the chapel. Then
he heard a cough — it was his father. He
remembered a time, not so long ago, when
he’d been ashamed to take Evy to meet
his father and his family. In this, he’d an-
ticipated more trouble.

He’d been afraid and ashamed because
Evy had traveled to so many places, seen
so much of the world as Miss Denmark
in the Miss Universe contest, that when
the time had come for her to meet a
simple, down-to-earth Italian family who
lived on a sidestreet in South Philadel-
phia, he’d been scared as to how she might
react . . .

He was so afraid they all wouldn’t like
each other, that he had Evy wait in the
car that Saturday morning when he
brought her home to introduce her to his
mom and dad and brother. He wanted to
make sure they were ready for her.

His mom and dad were lively, friendly
people, but he wanted them to act sophis-
ticated, to impress her when she came in
the door So he told them only to say
“how-do-you-do ” He didn’t want anv
hugs or kisses either, because he didn’t
think it was proper. His mom asked if she
could put on a nicer dress, and Jim waited
for her to change before he brought Evy
into the living room.

Everyone stood up when she came in,
and they exchanged polite, formal how-
do-you-do’s. But all of them were nervous,
including Evy, and finally, desperate for
something to say or do, she asked if she
could have a glass of water.

Jim’s mother went into the kitchen to
get it and, just as she came back with a
tumbler of icewater, his grandfather poked
his head into the living-room doorway
from the kitchen, and, in a broken Italian
dialect said, “Whatsa going on-a here?”

Jim said, ‘This is Evy Norlund, Grand-
pa. She’s my girlfriend.”

His white-haired grandfather winked at
Evy. “Come inside. I give-a you some
minestrone soup!” he said, kissing his
fingers to show her how good it was.

Jim cringed and everyone laughed nerv-
ously except Evy who smiled and said,
“Okay. I’m hungry.” And she walked over
and sat down opposite his grandfather,
at the kitchen table with the oilcloth cover,
and sipped a bowl of minestrone soup. “It’s
delicious,” she said. “Who made it?”

“I make it,” Jim’s grandfather said, pat-
ting himself on the chest and smiling.

Evy raved some more about the soup,
and suddenly they all felt comfortable. It
took Jim’s grandfather, a kind old man
from Italy, with a dialect that most people
couldn’t understand, to break the ice. Evy
seemed to adore him.

Finally, his mother said, “Evy, I felt so
funny in the living room because Jim
was so fussy about what we should say
to you — but, now, if you don’t mind, I’m

going to give you a hug and a kiss on
the cheek — just because I want to.”

And the two women hugged each other
while Jim just stood there, hunched, know-
ing he was the one who was the big fool
after all — the one who didn’t know how
to behave. If Evy were going to be his
wife, she should know his parents as they
really were. There was nothing to be
ashamed of; they were his flesh and blood
And right then and there, he went over
to Evy and said, “I love you,” so softly
that he could barely hear his own voice

Kneeling again, before the priest in the
chapel it seemed the biggest obstacle
he and Evy had had to overcome —
their different religions — was settled the
easiest. Evy was a Lutheran and he was a
Catholic.

Evy v/anted to keep her faith, and he
respected this. She did believe, however,
that the children of a family should take
the father’s religion. “After all,” she said,
“if they're going to take his name, they
should take his religion, too.”

So Evy had taken instruction from a
priest recommended by Father Gillooley,
who had been Jim’s own priest back home
at the Church of the Epiphany in Phila-
delphia. He went with Evy all through her
week of instruction, and, at the end of
the week, they visited Father Gillooley.

At the parish house, with its sandy-
colored walls and dark -wood furniture,
he and Evy talked with the Father about
marriage. He told them, “Marriage is a
spiritual contract between two people, and
there may be hundreds of times when
you’ll have to give more than you think
you can. Do everything that you can, to
lift each other up as human beings while
you’re married — but don’t expect marriage
to make your lives perfect. Marriage will
help you grow as people and the Good
Lord may bless your home with happy
children. But we’re all human, and we
have failings, and we must understand
this. Marriage is not an end, a final
achievement in life Think of it more as
a beginning . . .”

The marriage ceremony ended, and Jim
turned and kissed his bride lightly on
the lips. The organ music played and the
two of them turned and looked at the
marble madonna above the altar. For a
moment, they said a final prayer; then
they turned again and began walking
up the narrow aisle of the chapel.

Looking into Evy’s face, he couldn’t help
but feel a deep sense of triumph at hav-
ing won her as his bride. She was lovely.

Yet, as they walked outside and down
the steps of the church, smiling for the
dozens of cameramen who stood waiting
he realized he was feeling somewhat
strange again. And, as though Evy sensed
his feelings, she turned and said, “Do you
feel as odd as I do? As though something
were wrong?”

“Yes, I guess I do,” he admitted.

“It’s the seriousness of what just hap-
pened to us, I think,” she told him. “I
began to feel it inside the chapel ... in-
stead of being tremendously happy, I be-
came very thoughtful — not at all how 1
expected I would feel.”

He held her band tightly. That had been
exactly how he’d felt, too. The End

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SECRET BRIDE

Continued from page 49

linen jacket, the white shirt he’d had
especially made for the wedding, the new
black dress-shoes at the foot of the bed.
And when Mrs. Avallone walked over
to straighten the jacket on its hanger,
sister Teresa couldn’t hide her feelings any
longer. She burst into tears.

She was still crying when the phone
rang. "It’s probably the man from the
caterer’s,” mom said, spreading out her
hands in a gesture of helplessness. “What
shall I tell him?” She hesitated a moment,
then picked up the phone. “Hello?” she
said. She listened, for a moment, then
sank gratefully into the chair that was
always near the telephone table. “Who?
Where are you?” And hardly waiting for
an answer, she turned to the family.

“He’s at Idlewild airport in New York,”
she said excitedly. “It’s Frankie!”

"Talk into the telephone. Momma,”
Teresa said, smiling now. “Talk to Frankie,
not to us.”

"He’ll be here!” Mrs. Avallone screamed.
"He came by jet ... all the way from
California. He says he’ll be here before
I can say Jack Robinson.”

When she hung up, the other Avallones
went wild with excitement. Frankie’s
uncle picked the dress-shoes off the floor
and held them up to the light. He could
see his reflection in the polished patent
leather. “No one will believe it,” he
laughed. “Everyone will expect Frankie
to come to the church in white bucks!”

Only Frankie’s mother didn’t laugh.
She shook her head in bewilderment and
asked, "Jack Robinson? Who’s Jack Rob-
inson?” But Teresa smothered her ques-
tions in kisses. Frankie was on his way
home.

When Frankie slipped quietly into the
house, early in the morning, he tiptoed
upstairs to a small bedroom where his
wedding clothes had been moved. The
large bedroom, his usual one, was to be
reserved for the bride. That’s where she
would dress.

Frankie thought he’d be too excited to
sleep, but he was so tired after the long
trip, he didn’t wake up until after ten
the next morning. He started to dress,
but all the while he heard murmurings
from the large bedroom down the hall.
He recognized his mother’s voice, the
voices of some of the bridesmaids and the
sweet, excited voice of his sister Teresa.
He couldn’t contain his curiosity any
longer; he had to see the bride.

He walked down the hall and, knocking
on the door, said, “It’s Frankie. Let me
in.” From inside he could hear screams
and squeals. “No. No. Not now. Not yet!”
He waited patiently at the door. And
then, suddenly, he realized he was only
wearing his tuxedo pants, his black socks
and his undershirt. He stepped back, but
it was too late to retreat. At that moment,
the door opened. It didn’t really matter
though because as he looked at the bride,
any embarrassment he might have felt
changed to wonder and awe. She was
beautiful.

And suddenly, Frankie realized his hands
were shaking. “What am I so nervous
about?” he thought to himself. “This
isn’t my wedding day.”

But he couldn’t help it. His sister Teresa,
the sister he knew so well, was suddenly
different. She looked like a dazzling
princess out of a fairy tale. She was wear-
ing a wedding gown with yards and yards
of organza and, atop her dark hair, she
had on a pearl tiara from which the filmy

tulle floated down over her shoulders. But
the change in her was more than her
clothes. It was as though she had some
secret knowledge, as though she and Tom
Belfiore had found out about something
he didn’t know anything about.

His friend Tom was certainly a lucky
guy, Frankie thought. And he couldn’t
help thinking of what his own wedding
day might be like.

“Frankie,” Teresa inquired with a smile,
“Frankie, aren’t you going to say any-
thing?”

He wanted to tell her how proud he
was to be the best man at her wedding.
He wanted to compliment her, to tease
her, to tell her how he felt about her.
But his throat felt dry, and he just stood
there, shifting from one foot to the other.
He gulped, and when the words finally
came out, they made the bridesmaids and
his mother laugh: “Teresa, please help me
tie my tie.”

And then, looking down, he remembered
he didn’t even have his shirt on, so how
could she tie his tie? Yet, he could see
his sister’s eyes getting misty and he knew
she understood.

“You remembered,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, “I remembered. I’ll be
right back.”

A few seconds later, he returned with
his shirt on, and carefully, smiling affec-
tionately at him, she tied his tie. He had
remembered. It was something they’d
agreed on years ago, when he’d first
started dating and she’d helped him with
his tie when he was going to a formal
affair. No matter which one of them got
married first, they’d pledged, she’d fix
his tie on the wedding day — her wedding
day or his. A little token, somehow, that
marriage would never spoil the love and
affection they’d always felt for each other.

“Your fingers are so steady,” he whis-
pered. “Aren’t you nervous at all?”

“Terribly,” she whispered back, “but
please don’t tell anybody. If people knew
I was nervous, then I’d really break down.
. . . Are you okay, Frankie?”

“I’m okay,” he whispered back. “It’s
just hard to realize. It seems like just
yesterday we were roller-skating and play-
ing tag . . . and now you’re getting mar-
ried.” He hugged her, careful not to muss
her gown. He held her hand tight in his
for a few seconds, then left the room.

As he finished dressing, Frankie thought
how lucky he was to have Teresa as a
sister. They’d had such great times to-
gether when they were kids and then, as
they grew up, she’d taught him a lot
about girls. Not so much by what she
said, but by just being there for him to
watch.

Like the way she looked. She was al-
ways so natural. Sometimes, though he
knew she’d been in her room for hours
getting ready for a date, she’d come down-
stairs looking almost as if she didn’t have
any makeup on at all, yet she always
looked great. He liked that in a girl. He
didn’t care how much makeup a girl was
wearing, just as long as it wasn’t obvious
and he didn’t particularly notice she was
using it.

Teresa sure knows how to dress, too, he
thought, making a face at himself in the
mirror as he remembered one date he’d
gone on where the girl had been all fuss
and frills. If a girl wears the right thing
for the right occasion, he thought, that’s
really all I ask.

She doesn’t even have to be what you’d
call really pretty. He often found that
he was attracted to a girl that other fellows
didn’t go for at all. But if a girl’s not
neat, if her dress doesn’t look fresh and
her hair’s all out-of-place, then he’d never
give her a second look. But, otherwise,
it didn’t even matter what color her hair

was, or her eyes. As long as she’s not too
tall for me, he grinned.

Outside, a horn honked. It was his
friend’s signal; they were to drive
over to the Stella Maris Church to-
gether. Frankie checked himself in the
mirror, tugged his boutonniere a little
straighter and went downstairs.

It was a beautiful day for a wedding — •
just the kind he’d have ordered for Teresa
if he could. Everybody seemed to be out-
doors that day and, as they passed, Frankie
waved to a neighbor trimming a hedge
and to an old school chum who was pol-
ishing his car.

Later, when the procession had marched
slowly down the aisle and they all stood
before the altar — Teresa and Tom, the
bridesmaids, Frankie and the other ushers
—the bright afternoon sunlight flooded
down on them from the huge stained-
glass windows. Turning his head a little,
so he could see them better, Frankie
watched his sister and her bridegroom. It
was hard to describe, exactly, but he
thought they looked so blissful, kind of
out-of-the-world and, at the same time,
really in the world.

Frankie’d always said that he wouldn’t
get married until he was twenty-five. But
now, looking over at Teresa and Tom, he
felt, for the first time in his life, that he
was missing something great. Maybe he
wouldn’t wait till he was twenty-five, after
all. Maybe he’d just wait till he met the
right girl. He hoped it would be soon.

What would she be like? he wondered.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine
her, but he didn’t really have any picture
of how she’d look except that, like Teresa,
she’d look natural — and act that way, too.
She’d have to be willing to put up with
his zany sense of humor, he thought, and
she couldn’t be too aggressive or forward.
He liked a girl to be a girl. Still, he’d
want to be able to talk to her seriously
about all kinds of things, and he’d want
her to think for herself. He wouldn’t like
it if she agreed with everything he said
just because he was saying it.

He hoped she’d be a homebody, someone
who could make the same kind of home
his mother had made for her family, a
place full of warmth and love, where
people laughed a lot and where even a
stranger felt at home right away.

No, he thought, she definitely wouldn’t
be in show business. Singers and actresses
are usually too sophisticated, he decided,
too stuck on themselves to relax and be
natural. His girl wouldn’t be like that.
She’d rather go out bowling than to a
night club and she could have just as
much fun dancing to a jukebox or a
phonograph, as to a big name-band. And
she’d sure love to dance. He wouldn’t

mind if she wasn’t a good dancer, just
as long as she was willing to learn. With
the right girl, it’d be great fun to teach
her.

Frankie was smiling, just at the thought
of it, when the organ began to fill the
church, again, with its deep, solemn
sounds, and they began the procession
back up the aisle. Teresa had her arm in
Tom’s and Frankie walked just behind
them, careful not to step on the long,
trailing white skirt. At the door of the
church, everybody began to crowd around
the couple, kissing Teresa, shaking Tom’s
hand up and down, wishing them both all
the happiness in the world. Tom bent over
to whisper something in Teresa’s ear and
she laughed softly. But Frankie thought
her eyes looked shiny, as though any
minute the tears would spill over with
the happiness and wonder of this day.
So Frankie helped her and Tom make
their way through the crush of people
and, with the bridesmaids, they all piled
into cars and headed for the nearby park.

“It’ll be a great place to take some
pictures,” he told them.

They walked across the park, the girls
all carefully holding up the hems of their
skirts and, then, Teresa and Tom posed
with the six bridesmaids in front of the
lake. They’d posed for a few pictures and
then Teresa stepped out of the group, for
a minute, to fluff out her skirt.

Frankie walked over to her. He wanted
to tell her thanks for being his sister, for
showing him how swell a girl could be.
But, instead, he just leaned over and
kissed her.

“Just then, someone snapped a picture,
the picture was circulated — and,” Frankie
says, “. . . that’s how the rumor must have
started.” It spread quickly. Letters began
coming into the Photoplay office. “Frankie
Avalon’s married,” one of them said. “Why
didn’t he tell us?” “Doesn’t he trust his
fans?” another girl wrote. “We still like
him, even if he is married. Only why
can’t Frankie talk about his secret bride?”

It was hard to believe. It didn’t sound
at all like a thing Frankie would do. But,
when the letters kept coming, we decided
to ask him about it. We called his house
in New Jersey, but he wasn’t there. Then,
the next day, the phone rang and it was
Frankie. He’d been getting letters, too,
and he told us the whole story which
we’ve just told you. And he said, just
before hanging up, to tell everybody: “One
of these days I will be kissing my own
bride. Only I won’t keep it a secret. I’d
want everybody to know!” The End

SEE FRANKIE IN “GUNS OF THE TIMBERLAND”
FOR WARNERS AND “THE ALAMO” FOR UNITED
ARTISTS. HE SINGS ON CHANCELLOR LABEL.

* /

day. Frankie hoped that it would always he

He felt so close

to her this

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Continued from page 40

never did, either, before he was married.”

Sal grinned at her. He climbed on the
scooter, revved up the motor and they
started off. “Where do you two find so
much to talk about?” Sarina shouted over
the roar of the motor. Sal shook his head,
pretending that the noise and wind had
carried her words away. He grinned to
himself.

It hadn’t always been like this. . . . His
first date with Jane, several weeks before,
had almost been a failure.

He was first introduced to Jane at a
friend’s house. He was impressed by
her warm, happy smile, her pretty
face and the gentle tone of her voice and,
the next day, he’d called his friend espe-
cially to ask for her telephone number.
When he asked her out for the following
Saturday night, she said yes right away.

That evening, he’d decided to take her
for dinner at a small Italian restaurant
on East 53rd Street in Manhattan — one of
his favorites. And he’d been so very proud
that night as he led her to a table in the
corner, because he couldn’t help but notice
the admiring glances of men at other
tables. She was tall, slim and had lovely
long, silky blonde hair.

As soon as they sat down, a waiter
brought over two menus and, for a mo-
ment, they sat reading them in silence.

He toyed with the corner of his and then
asked her what she would like. After the
waiter had taken their order, he sat back
in his chair, looked over at her and began
talking. He wanted so much for them to
get along well together.

“Tell me a little about yourself,” he
said. “Have you always lived in New
York?”

No, he learned, she hadn’t. She was
almost a stranger to the city— her family
had moved to Manhattan from Pennsyl-
vania just a few months before. Like
himself, she also had older brothers and
was interested in acting, although she’d
finally decided to take up modeling.

Then he told her that he’d been brought
up right here in the city — in the Bronx.
And that his father was a casket-maker
and carpenter. He told her a little about
his own ambition to act, and about his
family who were originally from Italy.

They were the same facts a boy and
girl usually exchange when they first
meet. . . .

Then, remembering how, when he’d
called for her, he’d noticed an unusually
long bookcase lining one side of the living
room in her home, he said, “By the way,
who likes to read in your family? You
have so many books.”

“Oh . . . my father mostly. And my
eldest brother. I do when I have time.”

“So which one of you enjoys Heming-
way?” he asked, mentioning one of his
own favorite writers. “I noticed you have
practically all that he’s ever written.”
“My father,” she laughed.

“Have you read any?”

“A few . . . I’ve enjoyed what I have
read.”

She mentioned one title to Sal and yet,
as he began chatting about the book, jok-
ing about certain passages in it and talking
casually about the writer, he noticed that
somehow she continually avoided offering
an opinion or a remark.

After a while, he suddenly found him-
self saying, “May I ask you something?”
“Of course,” she smiled.

“Well, if ... if you’re interested in
something . . . something like this book

. . . why are you so afraid to give an opin-
ion or just to talk about it? It can be so
much fun exchanging ideas.”

She was silent for a moment and then
said thoughtfully, “I guess I just don’t
know enough about it.”

And that seemed to be so of nearly
. everything he tried to talk to her
about during the evening, although,
at the time he didn’t really notice it. He
found himself being a little concerned that
conversation — even small talk — seemed to
fall flat. Later that evening, while he was
driving home, after dropping her at her
door and saying goodnight, he began won-
dering . . . thinking . . . why hadn’t they
had fun? What had gone wrong? She
was sweet, pleasant, and really great to
look at. What had made the evening dull?
What had made it so different from other
evenings when he’d found himself laugh-
ing, sharing a joke with his date, an opin-
ion and even another date?

The biggest part of a good date, he de-
cided a short while later, is if she has
something to talk about. Finding you both
share the same interest ... a hobby, a
book, a piece of music. And exchanging
ideas about it. But I guess that’s difficult,
he thought, if the girl doesn’t know much
about anything.

But then, he decided that night, I can’t
really condemn Jane. I was a little like
her only a few years ago — shy to speak
because I was worried that I didn’t know
too much. And I guess, at the time, that
made me a little dull, too.

Sal’s association with formal education
ended abruptly in his early teens when
he was picked for a role in “The Rose
Tattoo.” He had already been taking
drama lessons and had always had ambi-
tions for show business. So, with his par-
ents’ consent, he accepted the part and
continued his education with a tutor. Yet
it didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in
academic learning. On the contrary.
Through his early association with older
people, he soon realized how very impor-
tant it is . . . how it can give you a fuller
life, make you a more interesting and
confident person. Make you feel like
somebody.

So, even though a thriving career pre-
vented him from going to school full time,
at that stage of his life, he began studying
by himself, setting aside a few hours each
day from his busy schedule in show busi-
ness, to learn about other things.

Sal began his studies with literature,
something he has always loved and also,
because it’s so closely connected with act-
ing and with writing — which is another
one of his ambitions. On his own, he made
a comparison of how four well-known
playwrights treated love in their works
and was surprised when he found out
later, at a party, that he could talk with
theater-people about this with a confidence
he never knew he had. He wondered if
some of the confidence had come from
finding out and creating the opinions for
himself. Mentioning it to a friend, a few
days later, the friend had joked, “Well,
professor, that’s great. You don’t have to
go to college to be educated, you know.”
It sounded good.

And he’d also been proud of his knowl-
edge of such a seemingly offbeat sub-
ject as the art of bullfighting — some-
thing way outside of the formal realm of
academic study. One day he even con-
vinced some executives at the studio that
this could make a wonderful topic for a
movie, even though, before he started
talking, they told him they disagreed. He’d
always been intrigued by the sport and
had been reading a lot about it and finally,
when he was through explaining why,

100

they admitted that they now saw the sub-
ject in a completely different light. And,
later, he’d felt so great about having had
the knowledge, and knew he’d gained re-
spect for it.

“It’s good to be educated,” thought Sal
that night he drove home from Jane’s
house. “It’s done so much for me person-
ally, although one day I’d like to have
the experience of really going to college.”

And, as he turned the car into the drive
of his home, he decided he wanted to try
and share it all with Jane, not be impa-
tient because she hadn’t been able to find
very much to say.

Tomorrow, he decided, as he locked the
car, went into the house and upstairs to
bed, he would call her and ask her out
again. Usually he just forgot about the
girl when a date had been as unexciting
as the one they’d had that night. But
perhaps he could show Jane, teach her
how to be interesting, the way he’d
learned.

It’s so much nicer when a girl has some-
thing to talk about, he thought. It makes
a fellow want to call her again. I guess
I’m not a great talker and it’s good when
a girl can start off a conversation. . . .

And, so, gradually he found out what
Jane liked, showed her that she didn’t
have to be afraid to speak, showed her
how easy it is to learn, simply by getting
a book out of the library or following the
newspapers. They found they both liked
art — Sal had first become interested when
he had had nothing to do backstage night
after night, during the time he was an
understudy in “The King and I.” And
she had always enjoyed sketching. So,
one evening, they even went to a sculpture

MY SECRET

Continued from page 58

England, but she didn’t believe it. This
was one of the first things she asked him
when they were introduced. He had just
smiled and his smile seemed shy, but she
found he wasn’t shy, really. It was just his
smile, which was more of a grin, a prank-
sterish sort of grin that made him look shy.

Wrapping her coat around her, she
fluffed her dark hair and slid down from
her hiding place. She ran so fast — like a
little girl might — down to meet him that,
when she reached him, she was breathless
and giddy and all she could say, when she
saw the violets he was holding, was — “Are
they for me?”

She had never really noticed how deep-
black his eyes were. When you’re fond of
someone, she thought, they always keep
changing. In the beginning, she would
never have thought that George would be
so gentle and so thoughtful.

It was on one of their first dates that she
had learned this. They were driving to a
Christmas Eve party along Sunset Boule-
vard and they had stopped at a traffic light.
It was a cold and windy night and they no-
ticed an elderly man, in thin clothing, sell-
ing newspapers on the corner.

“How many papers do you have there?”
George asked the man, stopping the car.

“About thirty, I’d guess.”

“We’ll take them all,” George had an-
swered, getting out of the car.

The man looked at him strangely.
“Why?”

“Oh, a friend of ours has his picture in
it and we thought we’d surprise him.”

The man didn’t say a word. He lugged
the bundle of thirty newspapers and threw
them on the back seat of the car. “That’s
three dollars,” he said brusquely.

class together in Greenwich Village and
it turned out more like fun than serious
study.

And he started to give her books to
read

“TTey,” Sarina called out, “we’re almost

XX. home!”

Sal guided the scooter toward the
center of the road to turn left at the next
junction and into a tree-lined street with
large homes, each standing in its own
grounds. He slowed down a little to stop,
a few moments later, in front of a large
Tudor-style home.

“Here we are,” he announced. “Ride’s
over.”

They left the scooter at the side of the
garage and went into the house through
the side entrance. And, ten minutes later,
they had joined the family around the long
dining table. The whole family always had
dinner together on Sundays and tonight
it was an old-fashioned Italian feast of
manicotti, one of Sal’s favorites.

Later that night, right after his brother,
Victor, and his wife had gone home, Sal
announced that he thought he’d turn in
early. He went upstairs and, just before
getting into bed, he picked up a book from
his desk at the far corner of the room.
He propped up the pillows, smiling as he
opened the book and read the inscription.
“To Sal. My first one to you. Hope you
enjoy it as much as I did — Jane.” He
read for a while before switching off the
light and, as he fell asleep, Sal was think-
ing of Jane. . . . The End

see sal in Columbia’s “the gene krupa

STORY.” HE ALSO RECORDS FOR EPIC RECORDS.

She remembered thinking, I hope George
doesn’t give him more than that because
I’m sure the man thinks we’re doing it be-
cause we’re sorry for him. And then how
deeply she felt when George counted out
three separate dollar bills and handed
them to the man.

The man looked at the bills and, as
George was walking around to his side of |
the car, the old man called out, “Oh — j
Merry Christmas, folks — and thanks . . .
thanks a lot.”

They drove off to the party. Neither of
them spoke about the incident; they didn’t
have to because they knew they both had
understood.

She looked up at him now, at his little-
boy grin, and suddenly she smiled, too.
“Let’s put the violets into water before
they die,” she said.

They ran around to the back door, into
the kitchen of the low rambling Spanish-
style home that had been her home since
she was born.

“Something smells good,” George sniffed.

“Cook’s baking some gingerbread,” she
laughed, “. . . my favorite.”

And then she remembered something,
something she’d never told anyone before.
“Can you keep my secret?” she asked,
looking so mischievous that George kissed
her on the nose and said, “Love to.”

“Come here,” she coaxed, “but you have
to get down on your knees. Look through
here,” she pointed at the partition between
the dining room and the kitchen. “Can you
see the dining-room table? If you look
low, you can see it.”

“Umh,” answered George.

“I found, when I was ten, if I looked in
through here, I could see my mother’s
friends — all the friends she’d known since
she was a young actress in Mexico — and
my dad’s business friends, too. I never
knew what an agent was, but I knew that
Daddy had to see lots of movie stars. I
used to come down here and watch. One

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OF CURRENT PICTURES

BIG CHIEF, THE — Continental. Directed by
Henri Verneuil: Antoine, Fernandel; Paul, Gino
Cervi; Eric, Papouf ; M. Jumelin, Jean-Jacques
Delbo; Mme. Jumelin, Noelle Norman; The But-
ler, Georges Chamarat; The Tenants, Albert
Michel, Dominique Davray; Their Son, Marc
Dekock; The Governess, Florence Blot; The De-
tective, Maurice Nasil.

EXPRESSO BONGO — Continental. Directed by
Val Guest: Johnny Jackson, Laurence Harvey;
Maisie King, Sylvia Svms; Dixie Collins, Yo-
lande Donlan ; Bongo Herbert, Cliff Richard;
Mayer, Meier Tzelniker; Lady Rosemary, Ambro-
sine Phillpotts; Leon, Eric Pohlmann ; Gilbert
Harding, Himself; Penelope, Hermione Baddeley;
Rev. Tobias Craven, Reginald Beckwith; Mr.
Rudge, Wilfrid Lawson; Kakky, Martin Miller;
Mrs. Rudge, Avis Bunnage; Edna Rudge, Susan
Burnet.

HELLER WITH A GUN — Paramount. Directed
by George Cukor: Angela Rossini, Sophia Loren;
Tom Healy, Anthony Quinn; Della Southby, Mar-
garet O’Brien; Mabry, Steve Forrest; Lorna
Hathazvay, Eileen Heckart; Manfred “Doc” Mon-
tague, Edmund Lowe; Sam Pierce, George Math-
ews; William, Cactus McPeters; Theodore, Frank
Cordell.

KIDNAPPED — Buena Vista. Directed by Robert
Stevenson: David Balfour, James MacArthur;
Alan Breck Stezuart, Peter Finch; Ebenezer Bal-
four, John Laurie; Captain Hoseason, Bernard
Lee; Shuan, Niall MacGinnis; Cluny MacPher-
son, Finlay Currie; Colin Roy Campbell, Andrew
Cruikshank.

MAN ON A STRING — Columbia. Directed by
Andre de Toth: Boris Mitrov, Ernest Borgnine;
Bob Avery, Kerwin Mathews; Helen Benson, Col-
leen Dewhurst; Vadja Kubelov, Alexander Scour-
by; Frank Sanford, Glenn Corbett; Papa, Vlad-
imir Sokoloff; Nikolai Chapayev, Friedrich
Joloff; Inspector Jenkins, Richard Kendrick.

MASTERS OF THE CONGO JUNGLE— 20th.
Directed by Heinz Sielmann and Henry Brandt:
Narration by Orson Welles and William War-
field.

PLEASE DON'T EAT THE DAISIES— M-G-M.
Directed by Charles Walters: Larry, David
Niven; Kate, Doris Day; David, Charles Her-
bert; George, Stanley Livingston; Gabriel, Flip
Mark; Adam, Larry Gellert; Kate's mother,
Spring Byington; Maggie, Patsy Kelly; Alfred
North, Richard Haydn; Deborah Vaughn, Janis
Paige; Mona James, Margaret Lindsay.

SCENT OF MYSTERY— Todd. Directed by
Jack Cardiff: The Scrutable Englishman, Den-
holm Elliott; The Sodden Derelict, Liam Red-
mond; The Trcpid and Rotund Chauffeur , Peter
Lorre; A Devil of an Advocate, Peter Arne; A
Dark and Glowering Gentleman, Paul Lukas; A
Black-Hearted Wife, Mary Laura Wood; The
Aficionado, Leo McKern; An Evil Lorry Opera-
tor, Juan Olaguivel; The Bizarre Store Keeper,
Maurice Marsac; A Gainly Damsel, Diana Dors;
A Not-So-Gainly Damsel, Judith Furse; The
Blonde Lorelei, Beverly Bentley; A Brunette
Herring, Billie Miller; A Vintage Aviator, Mi-
chael Trubshawe.

SNOW QUEEN, THE — U-I. Cartoons, Anima-
tion and Screenplay by Soyuzmultfilm Produc-
tions. Voices of: Gerda, Sandra Dee; Kay, Tom-
my Kirk; Angel, Patty McCormack; The Snow
Queen, Louise Arthur; OV Dreamy, Paul Frees;
The Raven, Paul Frees; Court Raven, June
Foray; The Princess, Joyce Terry; The Prince,
Richard Beals; Granny, Lillian Buyeff.

TALL STORY — Warners. Directed by Joshua
Logan: Ray Blent, Anthony Perkins; June Ry-
der, Jane Fonda; Leo Sullivan, Ray Walston;
Charles Osman, Marc Connelly ; Myra Sullivan,
Anne Jackson; Coach Hardy, Murray Hamilton;
Pres. Nagel, Bob Wright; D.A. Davis, Bart
Burns; 1st D.A. Man, Karl Lukas; Connie, Eliz-
abeth Patterson; Fred Jensen, Tom Laughlin;
Frieda Jensen, Barbara Darrow.

TOO SOON TO LOVE — U-I. Directed by Rich-
ard Rush: Cathy Taylor, Jennifer West; Jim
Mills, Richard Evans; Mr. Taylor, Warren
Parker; Hughie Wineman, Ralph Manza; Buddy,
Jack Nicholson; Irene, Jacqueline Schwab; Mrs.
Jefferson, Billie Bird; Doctor, William Keen.

VISIT TO A SMALL PLANET— Paramount.
Directed by Norman Taurog: Kreton, Jerry
Lewis; Ellen, Joan Blackman; Conrad. Earl Hol-
liman; Roger Spelding, Fred Clark; Rheba, Lee
Patrick; Bob Mayberry, Gale Gordon; Mrs. May-
berry, Ellen Corby; George Abercrombie , Jerome
Cowan; Delton, John Williams; Desdemona
(Beatnik Dancer), Barbara Lawson.

WIND CANNOT READ, THE — Rank, 20th.
Directed by Ralph Thomas: Michael Quinn, Dirk
Bogarde; “Sabby,” Yoko Tani; Fenzvick, Ronald
Lewis; Munroe, John Fraser; Brigadier, Anthony
Bushell; Lt. Nakamura, Henry Okawa.

dinner, I remember, there was Gregory
Peck, Tyrone Power, Lana Turner and
Marlene Dietrich. Mother used to let
Poncho and me come in, if we didn’t inter-
rupt, but it was more fun to watch from
here.”

She was just about eleven when she got
a mad crush on Tyrone Power. It was
so bad that one evening when he came
for dinner she could hardly look at him
across the table. She was sure he would
guess. After that, she decided it was easier
to look at pictures of him in movie maga-
zines.

She also had a big mad crush on Audie
Murphy. He came over one evening and,
while they were eating, he was telling her
mother and dad about the book he had
just written. Suddenly, he stopped and
looked at her. She didn’t know what to
say; she thought maybe he’d guessed how
she felt. Finally, he said, “You know,
Susan, if they ever make my book into a
picture, you’re going to play the girl.”

She had blushed and stammered and felt
all funny inside. She said something about
“wanting to be a writer,” and about the
sixth-grade newsletter, Chatterbox, which
she’d started . when she began at her new
school, Westlake. But deep-down she
knew she was flustered because the part
of the girl was a romantic one.

After that evening, her crush on Audie
got even bigger. But the strange part of
the evening was the ending. Years and
years later, a movie studio did buy Audie’s
book about his life. It was called “To
Hell and Back,” and they did film it and
she did get the part!

She really didn’t want to be an actress.
Not even when she saw more and more of
her mother’s pictures, the ones she made
when she was Lupita Lovar and called
The Sweetheart of Mexico. She was too
shy, she thought. She found it easier to
talk to trees or her dolls than to people
and to write things in her notebooks and to
read. In school, they called her “half-pint”
and it bothered her so much that she
talked her mother into taking her to a
doctor so he could tell her positively that
she’d grow up big. They’d call her “the
brain,” which hurt, too.

But then one day, when she was almost
sixteen, something happened that was to
change her whole life.

One evening, she, her mother and her
father went to a local Little Theater pro-
duction. The name of the play was “Susan
Slept Here,” and she thought that she had
never seen such a marvelous play. When
intermission came, she didn’t want to
leave her seat. She told her parents she’d
rather stay.

Her mother and father walked to the
rear of the theater, and while they were
standing there, the director of the play — a
friend of her father’s — saw them and came
over to talk. He told them of his new
play, “The Girl on the Via Flamina,” and
how difficult it was to find the right girl for
one of the parts.

Her dad, trying to be helpful, asked:
“What type are you looking for?”

The director paused for a moment, his
eyes scanning the audience. He then ex-
citedly pointed to a girl sitting alone in the
row of empty seats. “Why, I want some-
one exactly like that girl sitting over
there,” he said. The girl he had been
pointing at was her.

Her dad laughed goodnaturedly. “Oh,
no, you don’t,” he said. “That girl happens
to be my daughter!”

“Won’t you even let her read for the
part?” the director begged.

“No, definitely not. She’s going to high
school,” her father had said, “and that’s
where she belongs.”

The next morning, her mother had come

into her room and told her what the direc-
tor had said. “Would you like to read for
the part?” her mother asked.

She had said yes.

The afternoon she was to read, as they
got into the car to go to the theater, her
mother, taking her hand, had pressed
something into it and said, “Here, Monkey,
keep this with you.”

She opened her palm and looked at a
flat oval-shaped silver medal. It had been
her mother’s good luck keepsake ever
since she’d started as an actress.

She had read for the part, holding the
medal tightly in her hand, and she got it —
the role of a young Italian girl. For two
months, she played the part, going to
school all day, dashing home for a nap
and then off to the theater (Daddy finally
agreed) with her textbooks so she could
study until she heard her cue to go on.

What’s more, she graduated valedicto-
rian of her class and, to please her father,
she almost finished her second year of
college. She would have, if one afternoon,
during class, she hadn’t been summoned to
the principal’s office. Her mother was call-
ing. “Remember the part you read for—
the one that Ty Power suggested?”

Susie nodded — how could she forget?

“Well,” she heard her mother’s voice say
excitedly, “Tyrone just called from New
York. There’s a good chance you can still
get the part.”

The next day she and her mother flew to
New York.

She got her part, and in a wave of hys-
terical joy, she flew back home and quit
the university. All she could think of was
“I’m going to do a Broadway play ... a
Broadway play.” She was in heaven.

Then “A Quiet Place” played out of
town. It traveled to six cities. And, in
Washington, D. C., it closed to bad reviews.
The play never hit Broadway. She re-
turned home with good notices and no job.

Do you like working on television?” she
suddenly asked George.

“It’s good experience, I think,” he
answered. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “I think I’m
happiest in movies. I loved playing Sara
Jane in ‘Imitation of Life.’ I could spend
more time understanding her . . . her shy-
ness.” Then she looked teasingly. “Believe
it or not,” she went on, “I used to be shy
. . . and afraid of men, too.” She laughed.
“Of course, going to a girl’s school all day
didn’t help. much. And then when I did
have a date, you know what my father
used to do? He would ask the boy to park
his car in the driveway for the evening
and then Dad would take us both to where
we were going and pick us up at the end
of the evening! Isn’t that awful? I used to
come home and write poems about it. I
never thought I’d fall in love! . .

“And did you?” George asked.

And she thought, “Why am I always
flustered when he smiles that way? It
seemed as if he were saying, ‘I know all
about you — everything about you. You
can’t fool me.’ ”

“Did you? Have you fallen in love?” he
repeated. Then he laughed and touched the
tip of her nose with his finger.

She looked up, feeling his eyes intent
upon her. “Had she?” she asked herself.
“Can he tell?” Then, trying not to show
her feelings, she said gaily, “Ah, there’s a
secret, too. And you can’t learn all my se-
crets in one day.”

The cook came in. “Want some ginger-
bread?” she asked. And George forgot all
about the secret. — MARCIA BORIE

SEE SUSAN IN COL.’s “THE GENE KRUPA, STORY,”
AND M-G-M’S “ALL THE FINE YOUNG CANNI-
BALS.” george’s in m-g-m’s “home from the

hill” AND “all THE FINE YOUNG CANNIBALS.”

A SOFT, FINE SPRAY THAT IS GOOF) TO YOUR HAIR
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JUNE, 1960

FAVORITE OF

DEBBIE REYNOLDS
LANA TURNER
ANNETTE FUNICELLO
and PAUL ANKA

TOMMY SANDS

ROGER SMITH
TUESDAY WELD

NICK ADAMS
ELVIS PRESLEY

LUCILLE BALL and
DESI ARNAZ
TROY DONAHUE and
DOROTHY PROVINE
NATALIE TRUNDY

DION

QUIZ

BRIGITTE BARDOT,
KIM NOVAK and
DORIS DAY

AMERICA'S MOVIEGOERS FOR OVER FORTY YEARS

EXCLUSIVE

33 Cover Story: Behind Debbie’s Marriage Fears by Robert Dean
48 Why Lana Let Them Pot Her Daughter Away by Barbara Harris
61 What Happened to Those Wedding Bells?

by Annette as told to Sara Hamilton

ARTICLES AND SPECIAL FEATURES

38 I’m Going to Marry Nancy Sinatra (No Matter What)

by Milt Johnson

40 A Secret That Can Only Be Whispered by Sara Hamilton

42 The Kids Wouldn’t Let Me Be Friends

by Tuesday as told to Marcia Borie
cn * L°.f To.Leam Abouf Girls by Nick as told to Martin Cohen
50 “Elvis, Did Your Kiss Mean Anything at All? by Patricia Willert
54 Photoplay Calls Elvis by Nancy Anderson
56 “I Just Couldn’t Take Any More” by Charlotte Dinter

64 Just Building Castles in the Sand by Rona Barrett

66 Husband of Natalie Trundy Tries Suicide by Jim Hoffman

SUMMER FASHIONS AND BEAUTY BONUS

58 Love and Fashion Passions or The Bachelors Dilemma
60 Can You Make Dion’s Temperature Rise?

68 Copy the Looks of Your Favorite Star

70 Copy the Beauty Secrets of Your Favorite Star

You Just Can’t
Buy a Better,
Safer, All -Day
Deodorant
at Any Price!

YOUNG IDEAS

8 Readers Inc.

14 Monthly Record
25 Becoming Attractions

NEWS AND REVIEWS

4 Hollywood for You by Skolsky
18 Go Out to a Movie

26 Inside Stuff

73 & 96 Where to Buy
86 Your Monthly Ballot
93 Answers to May’s Puzzle

23 Casts of Current Pictures

24 Brief Reviews
by Sara Hamilton

COVER PHOTO: Debbie Reynolds by Topix

EVELYN PAIN, Editor KENNETH CUNNINGHAM, Art Director

NORMAN SIEGEL, West Coast Editor

A,«nneing Erdr°r KATE PALUMBO, Fashion Editor

ANDKEE BBOOKS, Associate Editor .tune clark, Beauty Editor

ini,uFntDvEm’ Assistant Editor Roger mabshutz, Staff Photographer

ivvp K N’.V1Y,fEN ,M,AZr°;NE' Contrlbl,t"‘S Editors joan CLARKE, Assistant Art Director
A. . E KANES, Assistant to Editor marcia borie, West Coast Contributor

1 our July issue will be on sale at your newsstand on June 3rd
• • .

Photoplay is Published Monthly by Macfadden Publications, Inc., New York N Y

Edi*ori°l °ffices at 205 East 42nd Street, New'Yo'rk 17, N. Y. Editorial
V— branch office, 321 South Beverly Drive, Beverly Hills, Calif. Irving S. Manheimer, President; Lee

Advertising SfclU^^ail&n ST' Vi‘e-PreSide"t; Me*er Dworkin. Secretary and Treasurer.

CcbnnnP,i°n J2'50 one Xear- *4-00 two years, $5.50 three years in U. S., its possessions ond Canada.

$o.UU per year all other countries.

Change of Address: 6 weeks notice essential. When possible, please furnish stencil-impression address from a
^cen* !ssue; Address change can be made only if we have your old as well as your new address. Write to
Photoplay, Macfadden Publications, Inc., 205 East 42nd Street, New York 17, N. Y.

Foreign editions handled through Macfadden Publications International Corp., 205 East 42nd Street, New York
17, N. Y. Irving S. Manheimer, President; Douglas Lockhart, Vice-President.

Re-entered as Second Class matter May 10, 1946 at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March
3, 1879. Second-class postage paid at New York, N. Y., and other post offices. Authorized as Second Class
Moil P. O. Dept., Ottawa, Ont., Canada. Copyright 1960 by Macfadden Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.
Copyright under the Universal Copyright Convention and International Copyright Convention. Copyright reserved
under Pan American Copyright Convention. Todos derechos reservados segun la Convencion Panamericana de
Propiedad Literaria y Artistica. Title trademark registered in U. S. Patent Office. Printed in U. S. A. by Art Color
Printing Company. Member of True Story Women’s Group.

Men trembled
before the fury
of his naked
strength . . .women

A GIANT AMONG MEN
IN A GIGANTIC SPECTACLE !

When treachery stalks the land, a Giant among
men and his Gallant Hundred Young Giants, with
their loin-clothed bodies girded for
action, defy legions of enemies
on land and sea.

OFMARMTHON

hungered for the
embrace of his
powerful arms.

with

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THAT’S
HOLLYWOOD
FOR YOU

BY SIDNEY SKOLSKY

/ didn’t really want to do it, but MM talked me into it.

I don’t believe Debbie Reynolds is
going to rush into marriage. . . .
Marilyn Monroe waves her wrists to
relax before going into a scene. I
didn’t think it meant anything until
MM made me do it. I did feel more
relaxed, although I wasn’t about to
play a scene. . . . Marlon Brando con-
tinues to pick girls who are exotic
and exciting. . . . Luciana Paluzzi

Is Bing like Perry, or vice-versa?

would be more popular if she had a
name easier to pronounce. How about
her married name, Luciana Halsey?

. . . I think it would be an error if
Brigitte Bardot came to this country
to make a movie. ... Is Jayne Mans-
field for real or has her act now be-
come for real? ... I don’t under-
stand Vic Damone and his many
romances. He should return to the
street on which he lived. . . . Starlet
Googie Schwab said, “Oh I don t
want to be an actress, I just want
to be movie star. . . . Hollywood is
a place where a star sends you a
telegram to explain why he hasn't
answered your letter.

Barbara Rush continues to improve
with every picture. ... I think Peggy
Lee is real sexy when she’s selling a
sexy song. . . . Nothing Deborah
Kerr could do could surprise me
anymore. . . . Although I admit I was
surprised when Greer [Mrs. Miniver I
Garson was cast to play Mrs. Eleanor
Roosevelt in “Sunrise at Campobello.”

. . . The movies are going to confuse
future historians. Paul Muni is both
Pasteur and Zola; Don Ameche not
only invented the telephone but wrote
all the songs for Stephen Foster. . . .
Hollywood is a place ( Continued )

—

TECHNICOLOR® From WARNER BROS.

—.JEFFREY HUNTER CONSTANCE TOWERS • BILLIE BURKE

with WOODY STRODE • JUANO HERNANDEZ • WILLIS BOUCHEY Written by JAMES WARNER BELLAH and WILLIS GOLDBECK
Produced by WILLIS GOLDBECK and PATRICK FORD • Directed by JOHN FORD

We've said it before - but never, never for such a surprising reason !

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which is aptly described as a circus
for grown-up children.

I can’t understand why Anita Ek-
berg isn’t more important. She is a
better construction job than many
actresses who pass as sexy. ... I’d
hate to eat some of those meals pre-
pared by heroines in the movies,
wouldn’t you? . . . Doris Day has
eliminated the jive talk and all that
jazz since she became the All-Ameri-
can girl. ... I always await Ava
Gardner’s return to Hollywood, re-
gardless of how brief the visit may
be. ... A starlet is a girl who
knows how to play tennis, golf, piano
— and dumb. . . . I’m always cer-
tain Judi Meredith will find a new
romance. . . . Nick Adams impresses
me as the type who thoroughly enjoys
the Nick Adams TV show. ... I saw
the Bing Crosby program with guest
Perry Como and the Pern Como
program with guest Bing Cosby, and
I can t decide who’s the more re-
laxed. . . . Beverly Aadland has gone
with so many show business person-
alities that she now considers herself
a part of show business. . . . I’m al-
most as pleased as Neile Adams that
Steve McQueen gave up auto racing
and that motorcycle. ... I can’t
tolerate singers who change the well-
planned lyrics of Cole Porter. Irving
Berlin. Oscar Hammerstein and Ira

Wonder if Shirley knows Pat’s secret?

continued

l always wait for Ava to come home.

Gershwin. ... I admit, though, that
when Frank Sinatra does it, it doesn’t
bother me half as much as the
others. . . . Hollywood is a place
where you can have a good time with-
out enjoying it.

Edd Byrnes should be allowed to
keep the royalties on all combs he
sells until he becomes bald. . . . I’ve
never seen a fixed TV show, but I’ve
seen a lot that could have used some
repairs. . . . I’m still trying to find
out what Pat Boone did with those
white bucks. ... As of this writing.
I think Tuesday Weld is reforming.
But Tuesday reformed is more of a
character than many of the younger
set making a desperate effort to be
characters. . . . Hollywood is a place
where after a person is a success,
he can’t afford not to be a success
always.

I believe John Saxon is going to
develop into another Tony Curtis.
. . . Of all the performers who have
won Oscars, the actor who resembles
his prize most is Alec Guinness. . . .
I wonder if Rock Hudson would have
been as big a star under his correct
name, Roy Fitzpatrick. I think so.
. . . How about Ingrid Bergman in
a movie directed by Ingmar Bergman,
for an all Bergman movie? . . . Also,
I’d like to see Tab Hunter and Kim
Novak in a movie together, in order
to decide who registers the blondest.
. . . Hollywood is a place that is
divided into two parts: those people
who are struggling to become famous
and those people who are struggling
to stay famous. And That’s Holly-
wood For You.

I dreamed I played in

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DEAR EDITOR:

I am thirteen years old. I have been in
love with a hoy for four years. I have
grown up with Bill and just can't stop
liking him. My best girlfriend is throw-
ing herself at him (just to make her own
boyfriend jealous), and Bill likes it. She
is going to break his heart when he finds
out what she’s doing. Could you help
me? What should 1 do?

Loyal Reader

Redrock. Okla.

Dear Loyal Reader:

You ve already given him one-quarter of
your life. It’s time to cash in this Bill for
a new one.

Dear Pat:

Throwing a “record party” might be a
good way of getting back into the suing of
dating, hut be sure your guest list includes
boys who are also “at liberty.”

DEAR EDITOR:

I like a hoy in school but I don't know
hint personally. I don’t have any classes
with him and I hardly see him in the
halls. I know his sister very slightly. How
can I get to meet him?

Sylvia
Tampa, Fla.

Dear Sylvia:

Make a slight detour via his sister.

DEAR EDITOR:

Can you help me solve a big problem? I
have been dating the same boy for about
three weeks, while dating other boys oc-
casionally. He’s asked me to go steady
about four times. I like bint a lot. but
I’ve explained to him that my parents
don’t approve of going steady and that I
enjoy playing the field after having gone
steady, once, for a year. He’s terribly
jealous and now he doesn’t want to
date me anymore unless I go steady with
him. Please tell me, what can I do?

Judy

Bridgeport. C.onn.

Dear Judy:

Beware of any boy who won't take “no”
for an answer — especially when it's been
repeated four times in three weeks. Re-
member, there’s safety in numbers, so keep
on playing the field.

DEAR EDITOR:

Could you try and help me solve my
problem? I am seventeen and have a ter-
rible crush on a boy who goes steady. He’s
been going steady about four or five
months and used to like me before that,
but I didn’t like him then. He isn’t fair to
his girl or me either because, even though
he’s going steady. I've been with him
twice and I’m not supposed to tell anyone.
I don’t want to give him up. Tell me what
T can do.

Confused
Athens, Tenn.

Dear Confused:

You've got nothing to bide so tell him
you want your dates to be out in the open.
It’s up to him to take the next "honorable”
step

DEAR EDITOR:

There’s this boy I like very much and he
seems to be interested in me. He’s very
shy and every time I catch him staring
at me and try to smile, he turns the other
way. I know he has other girlfriends
but he’s not going steady. So what can I
do? I tried almost everything but it
doesn’t work.

Mary

Michigan

Dear Mary:

Stop trying. He seems able to look his
other girlfriends in the eye long enough
to ask them for a date.

DEAR EDITOR:

I’m fifteen and have been living in this
place for a year. When boys started really
noticing me, and taking me Out, I had a
ball. Well, I was stupid and started going
steady. I didn’t like it and broke up after
one month. Now, the boys still think I’m
going steady, or else they are by now. I
don’t go anywhere except with girls. I
almost wish I could see my ex-steady
walking up to my door on weekends. This
way, I don’t see any boy doing it. How do
I get out of this rut?

Pat

Silver Springs. Md.

DEAR EDITOR:

Would you mind answering my question?
Why is “making out” and “petting” life
to my boy and girl friends around school?
Maybe I’m a little mixed up or maybe I’m
just a square, but we’re only in the eighth
grade and we’ve got plenty of time to
grow up. Besides, it’s kind of disgusting
and silly to go to a party with dancing
and “real fun” in mind, and end up danc-
ing one dance and then somebody saying.
“Let’s put out the lights and have some
fun." Now7, as I said, I may he square but
don’t you think it’s kind of stupid? If so.
do you have any ideas I could try at out
next party? Things we might do to avoid
“putting the lights out?” Thanks loads.

Sharin'

Morristow n, N. J.

Dear Sharin :

There’s nothing square about knowing
that heavy necking and petting — at any age
— is dangerous and foolish and I’m sure
all girls feel the same way but are afraid
of not being popular. What a girl must
realize is that to be really popular, you
must be respected and this is one way
not to get respect. I think your parents
are your best solution. Once your friends
know Dad is in the house (and eighth-
grade parties should be chaperoned), you'll
have no trouble keeping the lights up and
the necking down.

P.S. Look for your letters here every month.
We're sorry they can't be answered personally.

Continued

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Now Write About Reb — Huh?

Thanks a million for the article and the
cute picture of Nick and Carol Adams in
the April issue of Photoplay. Now that
little Reb is here, you can write all about
him.

Jane Jeske
Akron, Ohio

Sorry to disappoint you , but we can’t
write about little Reb since he isn’t here,
but we can write about little Allyson — she
is! See page 44— Ed.

My Idol

Clint Eastwood is by far.

My favorite cowboy star.

As Rowdy he is better known,

On "Rawhide” he is shown.

With a grin like heaven,

And talent here to stay,

Clear the way for Rowdy,

Born a start this day.

Whenever I look into his eyes,

1 start to feel like I’m hypnotized.

My stomach flips and my head spins,
But in the end. Rowdy always wins.

Jeanne Subera
Hillsboro, Wis.

Horray ! !

Hooray for Tuesday Weld. She is so re-
freshing. That spunky gal has my backing
all the way.

Kristal Anderson
Virginia, Minn.

We think so too. Turn to page 42. — Ed.

I Tried Them All

In the March issue, you had hair styles.
I really enjoyed it and I tried them all.
I think you should print hair styles every
month.

Joan Gureski
Trenton, N.J.

How do the rest of you readers feel about
this suggestion? — Ed.

Golden Voice

One night while passing a jukebox machine,
I heard a voice singing to “Bernardine.”
Tho’ the words, at first, enraptured me.
That golden voice never did let me go free.
My favorites are not Elvis or Rick,

Among all, it’s Pat that I pick.

Now I don’t jump to a voice so fine,

For I do dig Pat Boone’s smooth, easy line.

Anil Arora
Kanpur, India

Wonderful Movie

I have just finished reading the book
“Rebecca.” I think it would make a won-
derful movie. I think the following stars
would be absolutely excellent for the fol-
lowing parts:

Rebecca — Liz Taylor
Maxim de Winter — Jeff Chandler
Maxim’s second wife — Audrey Hepburn
Mrs. Danvers — Agnes Moorhead

Sandra Duncan
Plattsburg, N.Y.

This was a wonderful 1940 movie. It starred
Laurence Olivier, Joan Fontaine and Judith
Anderson. — Ed.

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Who Played What?

... I have been arguing with this girl
that I work with for a month now as to
who played Marilyn Maxwell’s sister in the
Jerry Lewis picture, “Rock-A-Bye Baby.”
I say Connie Stevens and she disagrees with
me. Could you please settle this argument
so we can he friends again?

Joyce Witlicki
Willowick, Ohio

Connie Stevens is right. If you’ll recall,
she played Sandy Naples, Carla’s younger
sister. Now you and your co-worker can be
friends again — right? — Ed.

. . . Was “Great Expectations,” by
Charles Dickens, ever made into a movie?
If so, who starred?

Mrs. S. Scafferi, Jr.
Marshalltown, Iowa

. . . Our Marilyn Monroe fan club is
open for members all over the U.S.A. An-
nual dues are $1.50. Members receive mem-
bership cards and, also, an 11 x 14 photo
of Marilyn.

Ray Helmers
280 Juniper
Park Forest, 111.

... I am a recent patient to a T.B. hos-
pital and enjoy writing and receiving mail.

Betty Orr

Southwestern Mich. T.B. Sanatorium

1500 Blakeslee St.

Kalamazoo, Mich.

... I am a 22-year-
old boy whose great
desire is to have a
pen friend.

Sheriff Abdulrazak
52, Chapel Rd.
Bandra

Bombay 50, India

. . . Join the: Paul Anka Fan Club
Brenda Efird
203 St. John St.
Concord, N.C.

Yes. This wonderful picture, released in
1947, starred John Mills, Valerie Hobson
and Jean Simmons. — El).

. . . My sister and I had an argument as
to who played in “Salome.” Was it Susan
Hayward or Rita Hayworth?

Sarah Byrne
Houston, Texas

Their names may sound alike, but it was
Rita Hayworth who played the part of the
beautiful Salome. Don’t forget to tell us
who won — you or your sister. — Ed.

Rita and Stewart Granger in “Salome.”

. . . Recently I bought the book, “Don't
Go Near the Water” by William Brinkley.
It has been quite a while since I saw the
movie and I can’t remember which stars
played what. Can you help me?

Ren ate Tamm
Langley, B.C.

Lt. Max Siegel — Glenn Ford

Melora — Gia Scala

Adam Garrett — Earl Holliman

Lt. Alice Tomlen — Anne Francis

Gordon Ripwell — Keenan Wynn

Lt. Comdr. Clinton T. Nash — Fred Clark

Deborah Aldrich — Eva Gabor

Farragut Jones — Mickey Shaughnessy

Okay?? — Ed.

Write to Readers Inc., Photoplay, 205 E. 42nd
St., New York 17, N. T. We regret we cannot
answer or return unpublished letters. To start
fan clubs or write stars, contact their studios.

| ... I am a sixteen-

! year-old country girl,

| living in the big city.

1 It gets mighty lone-
! some and I would
| love to have all you
| boys and girls who
1 live on farms in the
I western states write
| to me.

| Bonnie Lynne Boes
I 7647 N. Ashland Ave.

| Chicago 26, 111.

| ... Anyone crazy about horses? We’ve

i started a Horse Lovers Club. Want to
| join? For full info, write me:

1 Nancee Renshaw

| 39025 Juniper Tree

| Palmdale, Calif.

I ... I am a boy of seventeen and I would
I like to have an American girl pen pal.
| I dig Elvis and Carol Lynley.

| Claude S. Loutfi

| 245, Street El Horeya

1 Alexandria

1 Egypt ( R.A.U.)

1 ... I’m terribly lonesome and would

| sure appreciate guys and gals from 18 to
I 24 penning me a few lines.

| Christine Simon

| 440 Winona Dr.

1 Toronto, Ontario

| ... Anyone wanting to join a real

| swinging club for Mitzi Gaynor, here is
I your chance. Dues are only $1.50 per year.
| This entitles you to an 8 x 10 autographed
| picture of Mitzi, 2 journals a year, 4 bul-
I letins per year and a membership card.
I Don’t miss out on all the fun and surprises
1 connected with this club.

1 Jeanne Marie Schulz

r 164 Long Meadow Dr.

| Rochester 21, N. Y.

... I am a boy of
nineteen who desires
a pen-pal in the
U.S.A. and South
America. I have black
eyes and hair. My
hobbies are films, rec-
ords and writing to
friends.

Garabet Stephen
Training Dept.,

I.P.C. Ltd.,

Kirkuk, Iraq

. . . My hobby is stamp collecting and I |
would like to exchange stamps with some- 1
one from a foreign country. |

Robert Szaro |
24 Alan St. 1
Tiverton, R. I. |

... I am interested in writing to people |
who are interested in Claudette Colbert. |
I would be willing to trade other stars’ |
pictures for pictures of Miss Colbert. I 1
am also interested in obtaining old movie |
books especially those of the 30’ s and 40’ s. |
Beverly Tinkham 1
585 Main St. |

So. Meriden, Conn. |

... I would like to purchase any pic- |
tures, newspaper or magazine clippings of 1
Carol Lynley or Brandon de Wilde. |

Ruth Browning |
1404 Walnut St. |
Greensboro, N.C. I

... I have quite a good collection of pic- §
tures of Ricky Nelson, Fabian, Pat Boone |
and Connie Francis. So all you wonderful |
guys and dolls who wish to own them, |

write to me with pictures of my idol, Elvis. |

Daya Elvis Tii.aksiri |
50/3 Carmel Road
Colombo 3, Ceylon

. Come on, everyone, and join the An- 1
nette Funicello fan club. You'll get a mem- |
bership card and all it costs is 50f a year. 1
Karen Mercier i
R.F.D. #1 |

Madison, Maine |

. . . Anyone interested in helping me |

start a Connie Stevens fan club? Then |

write to :

Sara Bocert 1
568 Paramus Rd. §
Paramus, N..I. |

Need members for a fan club? Want a pen pal? |
Like to exchange fads? Write: Confidentially, i
Photoplay, 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N.Y. |

TlllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll|||||||||||||IH|||||||||M|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||M||||||||||||||||Hf||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||f1|||t||||||||||f1|||||||||||||||||f|||||t|||M|||||||||~

May, 1960

jflotttfjlp J\ccorb

Vol. 2, No. 4

Frankie Avalon Is Surprised;
BobbyDarinGivesHimselfAway;
Ray Bryant “Double-Crosses” Us

Bobby and Jo-Ann: wedding rehearsal?

Johnny noticed her. Frankie gulped.

THE BASIC MADISON

FEET TOGETHER

LEFT FOOT

STEP

FORWARD

PLACE RIGHT FOOT
BEHIND LEFT

0 /£)

•

V v8

•' 0

RIGHT FOOT

LEFT FOOT

LEFT FOOT BACK

BACK

THE LEFT

Went to a surprise party for
Frankie Avalon the other evening,
given by Eddie Donno, who’s a
boyhood pal of Frankie’s. Boy
howdy, talk about surprised! You
should have seen Frankie’s face
when he walked in and found half
the cast from his movie, “The
Alamo.” All he could do was gulp!

One night a couple of weeks ago.
Will Hutchins took me to the
Cloister, to dig the cool sounds
of our old friend, Jerry Wallace,
and hoy what a show this guy
puts on. I spotted Bobby Darin
there, sitting all alone, ’way in
hack. Bobby wouldn’t say much
about him and Jo-Ann Campbell,
but the look in bis eyes, at the
mention of her name, told all.

Ran into Johnny O'Keefe. Aus-
tralia’s “wild one,” and he told me
that the first things that attracted
him to his wife were her loose-
fitting sweater and her nice legs. . . .
When I told the editors how much
the booklet, “You’re Entertaining,”
helped me on the last party I gave,
they arranged for you to get it for
free. Write: Dept. PH. Home Service
Center, Scott Paper Co.. Chester, Pa.

I've just about practically worn
out my Columbia record of
“Madison Time,” by the Ray
Bryant combo, learning to do
the new dance, “The Madison.”
That’s the basic step, at left, but
the record also comes with dia-
grams of variations like the
“Double Cross.” — shari sheeley

have you heard...

Connie Francis

Musical trend: new
versions of old fa-
vorites, like Con-
nie’s“ Mam a” Andy’s
“ Village of St. Ber-
nadette” album, and
Freddy’s “Chatta-
nooga Shoe Shine
Boy.” Like the fad ?

RECOMMENDED ALBUMS

V'V'V'V' How About That (Abner)
A new Dee Clark, sensitive and
swinging.

V'VVv' Fats Domino Sings Mil-
lion Record Hits (Imperial) Mr.
Showman.

V'V'V'V' It’s Magic (Decca) Earl
Grant with a lush collection of
ballads.

V'V'V'V' Oldies But Goodies, Vol.

II ( Original Sound ) As potent as
Vol. I.

V'V'V Teen Angel (M-G-M) From a
musical family of nine, Mark Din-
ning emerges as a great new
talent.

V'V'V' Can-Can (Capitol) Original
movie soundtrack stars Sinatra,
Jourdan, Chevalier.

PW Moonglow (Dot) Pat Boone
styles standards in keepsake album.
W Down By The Station (Capi-
tol) The Four Preps chug along
with a collection of their big hits.
W I Remember Hank Wil-
liams (Top Rank) Jack Scott
brings back the hits of that leg-
endary folk singer.

V'V'V'V' History Of Music In
Sound. Vol. III (RCA) The Age
of Beethoven, as recorded by top
artists on a 3-disk set. A must for
serious students of music.

— PAUL DREW, WGST, ATLANTA

“WHY DIDN’T
SOMEONE
TELL ME
SOONER?”

Sooner or later . . . this story
is bound to reach all women.

Here are the facts
of how a Boston doctor
solved one of woman's
most intimate problems.

by Mary Morgan

It is the natural thing to do — for a
daughter to grow up learning from
her mother. She learns not only
such niceties as good manners and gra-
cious ways, but she also learns how to
cope with the intimate problems of life.
And that is how it should be.

But when a girl becomes a woman, she
begins to learn things for herself. And
it is then that she sometimes finds that
Mother’s way— though it may have been
the best in “her day”— is not necessarily
the best way today.

So it is, that many women today are
learning about a better method of sani-
tary protection than the older genera-
tion ever had. A method made possible
by a Boston doctor who saw the need
for a daintier, easier way.

Herein lies the story of the invention of
a tiny, new, more absorbent tampon
that needs no cardboard applicator.

Pondering the problem of sanitary pro-
tection some years ago, the late Dr.
Arthur B. Donovan decided that the
first step toward the development of a
better, simpler method was to examine
the kinds of sanitary protection then
available.

The most commonly used form of pro-
tection, at the time, was disposable san-
itary napkins. These were introduced
just after World War I and, of course,
were recognized by the doctor as an
improvement over the homemade pads
women had used for generations.

Still newer than this method, however,
was that of internal sanitary protec-
tion. Applicator-type tampons (intro-
duced about a decade after disposable
napkins) did away with such problems
as chafing and odor.

This, Dr. Donovan decided, was the
method he ought to pursue. Like a great
many physicians, Dr. Donovan had, for

years, employed “tamponage” in his
practice. This medical principle of in-
ternal absorption, he knew, was sound.
Internal absorption not only eliminated
chafing and odor, it was completely in-
visible. What’s more, it had already
proved to be a dainty kind of sanitary
protection. Dr. Donovan’s task was to
design an ideal tampon which would
be small, comfortable, easy to use. One
that would provide women with napkin
absorbency, and would do away with
the applicator. No simple undertaking!
In the years of research that followed,
Dr. Donovan, a stern perfectionist, de-
termined not to give up until he had
accomplished what he set out to do.
Countless hours were spent in experi-
menting, testing, questioning— until one
day, simple logic suddenly gave him
the answer. Why not, he reasoned, de-
velop a tampon with a tapered tip to
assure comfortable insertion.

This he did. And then Dr. Donovan
made another discovery. A newly de-
veloped and absolutely safe, clear coat-
ing was applied to the tip which made
correct placement of the tampon still
easier, gentler. This harmless coating,
which acted as a prelubricant, entirely
eliminated the need for a cardboard
applicator.

Dr. Donovan achieved a dainty, com-
pact tampon, by designing it to be com-
pressed to one-sixth the size of its origi-
nal absorptive material. Upon contact
with moisture, it gradually expanded
sideways — not lengthwise to exert un-
comfortable pressure — the secret of
why it fits without being felt. Thus,
the tampon adapted its shape to the
individual, the rate of absorbency be-
ing governed by each woman’s needs.
Applicator-type tampons were made in
three sizes. Dr. Donovan’s discovery
simplified this problem with one size
no larger than a lipstick — one absorb-

ency that would meet the needs of all
women.

Tests with doctors, hospitals, women of
all ages brought a response that ex-
ceeded the doctor’s fondest hopes. Teen-
age girls raved about the tampon’s
compactness — married women praised
its absorbency.

As further proof of this new tampon’s
effectiveness, a study recently made at
a leading Chicago university revealed
this tiny tampon to be as much as 25%
more absorbent than regular applica-
tor-type tampons now on the market.
The Campana Corporation was chosen
to market this new product which has
earned the Good Housekeeping Seal of
Guaranty. (Wherever this Seal ap-
pears, it means that replacement or
refund of money is guaranteed by Good
Housekeeping if not as advertised
therein.) Today, the tampon is sold in
drugstores everywhere under the name
of “Pursettes.” Any druggist who
doesn’t have Pursettes yet will gladly
accommodate you if you ask him to
order them for you. A whole box of
“Pursettes”— smaller than a deck of
playing cards— tucks into a tiny purse.
If you would like to try “Pursettes,”
just send 10^ to me, Mary Morgan,
Box TS-16, Batavia, Illinois, and a trial
supply will be sent to you.

As one married woman said : “I am
thirty-four and ‘Pursettes’ are the first
tampons I have ever been able to wear.”
And a mother wrote: “I’d been trying
to get my daughter to use tampons but
with no results. Finally, I took a chance
and bought ‘Pursettes’ and she’s
thrilled.”

Thus it is that some women hear about
Pursettes earlier— others later. But as
more and more discover its wonderful
new comfort, an ever-increasing num-
ber are known to say: “Why didn’t
someone tell me sooner?”

BEAUTIFUL HAIR IS

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NESTLE COLORINSE

NESTLE COLORTINT

in the Stars?

PUZZLE

20th?
belong to

Were you born be-
tween April 20th
and May
Then you

the second sign of
^ the zodiac — Taurus

— like Mark Damon

Rick Nelson (April 22), Sandra
Dee (April 23), Shirley MacLaine
(April 24), Glenn Ford and Harry
Belafonte (May 1), Bing Crosby
(May 2), Audrey Hepburn (May 4),
Stewart Granger I May 6), Anne
Baxter and Gary Cooper ( May 7 ) ,
Rick Nelson (May 8), Anna Maria
Alberghetti (May 15), Henry Fonda
(May 16), James Stewart (May 20).

What’s the key to your personality?

A wonderful, mag-
netic charm. You
have patience, a
mind for detail and
more self-control
than any other sign.
But there is a limit
to your self-control.
When your patience
runs out— look out!
You have quite a little temper!

You love perfumes, good music,
good food, art — anything of beauty
. . . anything that gives you pleasure.

You are a determined person and
once your mind is made up, only a
truly convincing argument will make
you change it.

You have great understanding and
sympathy toward
those you love or
are fond of. You
make loyal friends
and are satisfied
w ith your present
comforts in life.

You are one of
those fortunate peo-
just how to handle

Audrey Hepburn

Ring Crosby

pie who know
money.

In personal relationships, you have
great loyalty and devotion to the other
person. But beware! Once you get
tired or fed up with the relationship,
you never resume it again. It’s over.

Your lucky number is 3. — ERIAL

ACROSS

1. He asks: "What in the World's Come Over
You?"

5. " I Had a Girl"

6. His "Tracy's Theme" is popular (init.)

8. Jimmy ("Handy Man")

11. " Bear"

12. With the Belmonts

14. Marty Wilde's label

17. Cliburn

18. He sings "Scent of Mystery" (init.)

19. " Can"

20. Steve Lawrence's wife (init.)

22. Neil

24. A popular Brothers team (init.)

25. She has a hit 9 down
28. A health resort

31. A religious image

32. Brando's ex-wife

34. His big seller is 1 1 across
DOWN

1. He sings: "He'll Have To Go"

2. 25 across (init.)

3. Singer of the month (pictured)

4. He's engaged to Nancy Sinatra (init.)

7. Song title in 1 1 across (2 words)

8. He stars in "Take a Giant Step" (init.)

9. "O Mio" (reversed)

10. Self

13. De Matteo

15. Patti

16. "Don't Fence Me "

21. Sheep's cry

23. "Mack the "

24. And (Latin)

26. Erin's initials

27. Two-thirds of an explosive

28. A sport of the stars

29. What Bing is to Lindsay

30. A poisonous snake

33. Period of time (abbrev.)

CAN YOU GUESS THEIR NAMES?

1. Ira Grossel — a. Jeff Chandler

b. James Cagney c. Eddie Fisher

2. Suzanne Burce — a. Elizabeth Taylor

b. Polly Bergen c. Jane Powell

3. Leonard Syle — a. Basil Rathbone

b. Charlie Chaplin c. Roy Rogers

4. Marion Michael Morrison — a. John Wayne

b. Sam Levenson c. Adolphe Menjou
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What’s on tonight?

to see the best! Look for

these new pictures

at your favorite theater

J. ARTHUR RANK.
PARAMOUNT

Conspiracy of Hearts

Get set for movie suspense that turns into more than
just a game. You’ll find yourself on the edge of your seat,
really worrying about the people whose lives are in danger,
for every breathless minute of this picture. Its heroines are
the nuns of a convent in Italy, during World War II.
Nearby is a concentration camp for Jewish children, and
the sisters, under the leadership of their Mother Superior
(Lilli Palmer), have been smuggling the little prisoners
out and on the way to freedom, in small groups. But what’s
going to happen after a tough German shows up to take
command of the wavering Italian military force? Lilli
Palmer draws a lovely portrait of a woman who is charm-
ing, quick-witted and dedicated, whether she’s trying to
outmaneuver the pompous Nazi (Albert Lieven) or won-
dering what the pretty novice (Sylvia Syms) really thinks
of the young Italian officer (Ronald Lewis). family

Catl-Can 20th; todd-ao, technicolor

Here’s a movie feast — lots of star talent and Cole Porter
music and picturesque Parisian sets and gorgeous Gay
Nineties clothes. Frank Sinatra and Shirley MacLaine
start the fun, pretending to be a lazy lawyer and his off-
and-on sweetheart, the frisky owner of a Montmartre night
spot. They may not be exactly the most French types you
ever met, but never mind. France is handsomely repre-
sented by Louis Jourdan, who comes quietly onto the scene
and nearly steals the picture. In fact, he’s so attractive that
you may not agree with Shirley in her final choice.
Maurice Chevalier’s around, too (at left, top, with Frank
and Shirley ) , making sly comments on the proceedings,
and Juliet Prowse shows off limber legs and a sexy, saucy
face. The plot’s a simple one; the gendarmes just keep
raiding Shirley’s joint each time her girls go into the
can-can. Seems the law of those days disapproved of the
dance as strongly as Khrushchev did when he paid that
historic visit to the set. adult

Because They'1 re Young Columbia

The oldsters may want to stay home and watch TV,
while we younger moviegoers enjoy a picture made espe-
cially for us (though not for our kid brothers and sisters).
In his movie debut, Dick Clark’s his familiar, likable self,
as a high-school teacher who’s been under fire for taking
too much interest in his students’ personal problems. But
the hit of the show is Michael Callan, as a boy with a per-
petual chip on his shoulder and a persistent case on Tues-
day Weld, who’s had enough and too much of him. There’s
more good acting by Warren Berlinger and Roberta Shore
(remember them in “Blue Denim”?) and Doug McClure
(who’s in “The Unforgiven,” too). Victoria Shaw takes
care of the over-twenty romance, along with Dick (at left,
bottom), while Jimmy Darren steps in with a song to add
to the musical trimmings. One item for the complaint box,
though: Most of the parents in the story are nowhere —

either they are drunks or flirts or
just plain thick-headed. Please, fel-
las! Parents are people, too. adult

Jazz on u Summer’s Day luxe color

Some like it hot, some like it cool.
Whatever your taste in jazz, you’ll
like this beautiful movie-ballad of
1958’s Newport Jazz Festival. The
soundtrack throbs with great live
music, from Louis Armstrong’s good
old Dixieland to Chico Hamilton’s
haunting explorations ’way out on
the progressive side. A rousing r ’n’ r
number by Chuck Berry, Anita
O’Day’s vocal improvising — there’s
too much music to list. It’s better to
go and listen and look, while pro-
ducer-director Bert Stern, who also
manned a camera for most of the
footage, takes us all around the
Rhode Island resort, to watch artists
and fans and even get an eyeful of
the America Yacht Cup races off-
shore. Editor Aram A. Avakian rates
a bow, too, for cutting all the won-
derful shots with a beat that turns
the movie into jazz you can see, as
well as hear. family

7'he Gallant Hours u.A.

Robert Montgomery has pulled off
the neatest trick of the month — he’s
produced and directed a war picture
without letting the audience see a
single shot being fired. Instead, he
keeps the cameras behind the lines, at
the high-strategy headquarters of the
American and Japanese brass during
the battles of Guadalcanal. As Ad-
miral “Bull” Halsey, the man who
master-minds this turning point in
the war for the U.S., James Cagney
is just right — even to being an amaz-
ing look-alike to the cocky, down-to-
earth hero. Dennis Weaver does well
as Cagney’s aide, once you manage to
forget he’s also Chester of TV’s “Gun-
smoke.” But a background chorus
and narration are distracting rather
than helpful, and somehow you can’t
help wondering just why they didn’t
dip into the Navy’s newsreel treasures
of the actual battle. family

{Continued )

^sistdr

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NORTHAM WARREN: NEW YORK • MONTREAL • LONDON • PARIS • COLOGNE
STOCKHOLM • MADRID • MILAN • RIO DE JANEIRO • BUENOS AIRES • MONTEVIDEO

Miss Signe Hasso,
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SIGNE HASSO says: -‘So often ,

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MOVIES continued

A Lesson in Love janus

Capitalizing on the recent success
of Ingmar Bergman pictures, Sweden
sends us one of its top director’s
earlier films — and catches him in a
surprisingly gay mood. He’s making
a frivolous experiment with the flash-
back style that he later used so poeti-
cally in “Wild Strawberries.” This
time, the man taking the backward
look is Gunnar Bjornstrand, as a
successful physician who is a pretty
stuffy fellow (and knows it), but still
can’t see where his marriage went
wrong. The doc has been playing
around, and his wife (Eva Dahlbeck)
has taken up with an old boyfriend
of her bygone bohemian days. It’s all
lightly cynical and brightly amusing,
except for the touching sequences in-
volving gawky young Harriet An-
dersson, who’s so upset by her par-
ents’ quarrel that she simply hates the
idea of growing up — especially to be-
come a woman. adult

Wake Me When It’s Over 20™ ;

CINEMASCOPE, DE LUXE COLOR

Life in the U.S. armed forces is all
one big laugh — according to recent
movies, anyhow. Here’s this month’s
crazy service comedy, with Ernie
Kovacs as a wild man running a for-
gotten Air Force base on a Pacific
island, and Dick Shawn as a reluc-
tant re-draftee, who dreams up a
dandy idea for relieving the general
boredom. Presently, all hands are
busy building a fancy resort hotel,
dodging neatly around the regula-
tions. Margo Moore, as an Air Force
girl out to reform Ernie, and Nobu
McCarthy, as a gentle Japanese, add
the feminine touch and go along with
the cheerful gags. One catch: the
movie rambles on a bit long; it could
have used a tough sergeant to bawl,
“On the double!” adult

The Great War DELAURENTIIS ; CINEMA-
SCOPE; DIALOGUE IN ITALIAN, TITLES IN ENGLISH

It’s kind of ironic and sad to real-
ize now that the title once meant little
old World War I. But that conflict
was big and tragic to the people
whose lives it ended or wrecked, and
Italy has made an ambitious, affect-
ing film about its own role. The char-
acters are realistic enough, but pretty
familiar: Vittorio Gassman and Al-

berto Soldi, goofing-off experts who
will (you’re sure) wind up heroes
after all; Silvana Mangano, town
tramp who’s a good girl at heart;
Folco Lulli, old soldier who’s a solid
family man. Most countries have
made such pictures, which seem to
have power in wartime, but to lose
some of their edge afterward. adult

, , WARNERS,

Sergeant Kulledge technicolor

John Ford latched on to an inter-
esting idea here, but the result doesn’t
measure up to the director’s own
high standard in westerns. Seems
there actually were Negro cavalry-
men on the frontier right after the
Civil War, and Woody Strode cuts a
splendid figure as a mighty man
among them. But his story is told in
clumsy flashbacks from a court-
martial scene, as lie’s tried for an
atrocious rape-murder. Jeffrey Hun-
ter, arguing the prisoner’s case, and
Constance Towers, a defense witness,
are both made to seem rather dull
types. adult

Private Property! citation

A very strange movie, this: part
cheap sensationalism; part searching
honesty; and all turned out in bril-
liantly imaginative style by director-
writer Leslie Stevens. He’s picked a
thoroughly unpleasant subject, in the
plot that two young degenerates
(Corey Allen. Warren Oates) launch
against a luscious housewife (Kate
Manx) who’s left unsatisfied by
her business-mad husband (Robert
Walk). All four newcomers, espe-
cially Corey and Kate, do creditable
acting jobs, but they certainly have
a weird “cross-section” of humanity
to work with: two creeps, one moron,
one stuffed shirt. aduit

if MOSFILM, U-l;

C JlUSllO EASTMAN COLOR

Along comes another of the cul-
tural-exchange movies from the
U.S.S.R., this time on a classical
theme. Let’s face it — the story of
wicked lago and the noble but lame-
brained Moor and his unjustly sus-
pected bride is one of Shakespeare’s
shakier plots. It’s hard to tell how
well the Russian actors are doing,
(■ Continued )

TAN WITH

SEA’ SKI

POSITIVELY PREVENTS SUNBURN!

Take Sea and Ski wherever you
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MOVIES continued

SANI-SCANTS

Strategic seep -and -see -proof panel
gives full protection. Second-skin
fit assures minimum detection. All-
acetate tricot; White, Pink, SI. 50.

because their dialogue has all been
dubbed in, in English. There’s no other
way to handle it; you couldn't chop up
Shakespearean lines into superimposed
subtitles. At least, the picture is hand-
some to look at. shot on a Black Sea
location with magnificent old castles
and ruins. ,Dult

The Would-Be Gentleman

KINGSLEY-UNION ; EASTMAN COLOR;

DIALOGUE IN FRENCH, TITLES IN ENGLISH

France sends us a reverent movie ver-
sion of another classic, and it. too, is
beautifully mounted but mostly of in-
terest to earnest students. The Moliere
comedy of almost three centuries ago is
still good for some laughs, as its bum-
bling businessman tries to climb several
social notches all at once. Expert play-
ers of the Comedie Francaise, in their
first film appearance as a group, go
through their antics with delightful
formality. adult

When Comedy Was King 20th

Ever get tired of hearing Grandma
and Grandpa go on about the “good old
days' of Hollywood? Well, here’s your
chance to see what all that yacking’s
about. It’s a bunch of uproarious clips
from silent shorts, vintage 1916 to the
flapper era, with great clowns like
Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton and
Harry Langdon. Yep. there’s a Mack
Sennett chase, too, complete with Key-
stone Kops. All put together slickly,
with lively music and a sensible com-
mentary, it shows that good slapstick
was a real art, like dancing — or like

music, with recurrent themes. Like that
ice-cream-cone bit — funneee! family

Crack in the Mirror cinemascope

Show-offs! That’s what you might call
Orson Welles, Juliette Greco (below
right I and Bradford Dillman, each
tackling two roles apiece. But they have
genuine talent to show off, and there’s
a reason for the trickery. The three play
the principals in a gutter triangle that
ends in murder and the Paris courts.
And they also play an old lawyer, an
expensively kept woman and a young
lawyer — with the same ugly emotions
hidden behind an elegant front. In the
story’s let’s-pretend. nobody notices that
the two sets of characters look alike.
Smoothly done, with suspense. adult

The Un forgiven panavision, technicolor
This big, beautiful western is deter-
mined to be different, and it has a fine
cast to help it along. Everything re-
volves around the big question: Is Au-
drey Hepburn an Indian, or isn’t she?
In Indian-hating territory, that argu-
ment’s a mighty explosive one. Only
trouble is, the whole picture seems wild-
ly romantic, with people like Audrey
and Burt Lancaster (below, left) up
there on the wide screen in glorious
color. And yet director John Huston is
obviously trying to be dead-serious
about it all. It’s hard to take it that way,
except when Audie Murphy’s around.
He seems to fit into those faraway times.
As for John Saxon, he almost gets lost
in an unimportant role. family

OF CURRENT PICTURES

BECAUSE THEY'RE YOUNG— Columbia.
Directed by Paul Wendkos: Neil, Dick Clark;
Griff, Michael Callan; Anne, Tuesday Weld;
Joan, Victoria Shaw; Ricky, Roberta Shore; Bud-
dy, Warren Berlinger;; Jim, Doug McClure;
Frances McCalla, Linda Watkins; P atelier, Chris
Robinson; Chris, Rudy Bond; Mr. Donlan, Wen-
dell Holmes; Mr. Rimer, Philip Coolidge; Kram-
er, Bart Patton; Eric, Stephen Talbot; Mrs.
Wellenberg , Kathryn Card; Pekarek, Paul Genge.

BOY AND THE PIRATES, THE — U.A. Di-
rected by Bert I. Gordon: Jimmy Warren, Charles
Herbert; Katrina Van Keif, Susan Gordon; Black-
beard, Murvyn Vye; Snipe, Paul Guilfoyle; Abu,
the Genie, Joseph Turkel; Scoggins, Archie Dun-
can; Hunter, Than Wyenn; Dutch Captain, A1
Cavens; Peake, Mickey Finn; Mr. Warren, Mor-
gan Jones; Morgan, Timothy Carey.

CAN-CAN — 20th. Directed by Walter Lang:
Frangois Durnais, Frank Sinatra; Paul Barriere,
Maurice Chevalier; Simone, Shirley MacLaine;
Philippe Forrestiere , Louis Jourdan; Claudine,
Juliet Prowse; Henri Merceaux, Jean Del Val;
Photographer, John Neris; Andre, Marcel Dalio.

CONSPIRACY OF HEARTS— Paramount. Di-
rected by Ralph Thomas: Mother Katharine, Lilli
Palmer; Sister Mitya, Sylvia Syms; Sister Gerta,
Yvonne Mitchell; Major Spoletti, Ronald Lewis;
Colonel Horsten, Albert Lieven; Lt. Schmidt,
Peter Arne; Sister Tia, Nora Swinburne; Father
Desmaines, Michael Goodliffe; Sister Constance,
Megs Jenkins; The Rabbi, David Kossoff; Sister
Honoria, Jenny Laird; Petrelli, George Cou-
louris; Sister Elisaveta, Phyllis Neilson-Terry ;
Anna, Rebecca Dignam; Joseph, Josephy Cuby.

CRACK IN THE MIRROR— 20th. Directed
by Richard Fleischer: Hagolin and Lamorcicre,
Orson Welles; Eponine and Florence, Juliette
Greco; Larnier and Claude, Bradford Dillman;
President , Alexander Knox; Mother Superior,
Catherine Lacy; Kerstner, William Lucas; Doc-
tor, Maurice Teynac; H urtclaut , Austin Willis;
Murzeau, Cec Linder; Magre, Eugene Deckers;
Prosecutor, Yves Brainville.

GALLANT HOURS, THE — U.A. Directed by
Robert Montgomery: Admiral William F. Hal-
sey, Jr., James Cagney; Lt. Cmdr. Andy Lowe,
Dennis Weaver; Copt. Harry Black, Ward Costel-
lo; Lt. Cmdr. Roy Webb, Richard Jaeckel; Cmdr.
Mike Pulaski, Vaughn Taylor; Capt. Horace
Keys, Walter Sande; Capt. Frank Enright, Les
Tremayne; Capt. Bill Bailey, Karl Swenson;
Maj. Gen. Archie Vandegrift, Raymond Bailey;
Maj. Gen. Roy Geiger, Robert Burton; Admiral
Ghormley, Carl Benton Reid; Capt. Joe Foss,
Harry Landers; Father Gehring, Richard Car-
lyle; Manuel, Leon Lontoe.

PRIVATE PROPERTY ! — Citation. Directed by
Leslie Stevens: Duke, Corey Allen; Boots, War-
ren Oates; Roger, Robert Wark; Ed Hogate,
Jerome Cowan; Ann, Kate Manx.

SERGEANT RUTLEDGE— Warners. Directed
by John Ford: Braxton Rutledge, Woody Strode;
Lt. Cantrell, Jeffrey Hunter; Mary Beecher, Con-
stance Towers; Mrs. Fosgate, Billie Burke;
Skidmore, Juano Hernandez; Major Fosgate ,
Willis Bouchey; Capt. Shattuck, Carleton Young;
Lt. Mulqueen, Judson Pratt; Capt. Dwyer, Bill
Henry; Capt. MacAfee, Walter Reed; Capt.
Dickinson, Chuck Hayward; Nellie, Mae Marsh.

UNFORGIVEN, THE — U.A. Directed by John
Huston: Ben Zachary, Burt Lancaster; Rachel
Zachary, Audrey Hepburn; Cash Zachary, Audie
Murphy; Johnny Portugal, John Saxon; Zeb
Raivlins, Charles Bickford; Charlie Rawlins, Al-
bert Salmi; Matilda Zachary, Lillian Gish, Abe
Kelsey, Joseph Wiseman; Georgia Rawlins, Kipp
Hamilton; Jude Razvlins, Arnold Merritt; Hagar
Rawlins, June Walker; Lost. Bird, Carlos Rivas;
Andy Zachary, Doug McClure.

WAKE ME WHEN IT'S OVER— 20th. Di-
rected by Mervyn LeRoy: Capt. Stark, Ernie
Kovacs; Lt. Nora McKay, Margo Moore; Doc
Farrington, Jack Warden; Ume, Nobu McCarthy;
Gits Brubaker, Dick Shawn; Sgt. Warren, Don
Knotts; Sam W cisco ff, Robert Strauss; Marge,
Noreen Nash; Col. Hollingsworth, Parley Baer;
Joab Martinson, Robert Emhardt; Hap Cosgrove,
Marvin Kaplan; Pvt. Jim Hanigawa, Tommy
Nishimura; Gen. Weigang, Raymond Bailey; Col.
Dowling, Robert Burton; Maj. Bigloze, Frank
Behrens; Kaiko, Linda Wong; Mrs. Hollings-
worth, Caroline Richter; Connorton, Robert Peo-
ples; Hawaiian Singer, Ron Hargrave; Capt.
Arthur Finch, David Bedell; Col. Mulhern, Jay
Jostyn; Maj. Horace Tillman, Byron Morrow;
Capt. John Guevara, Michael Quinn; Col. Geoffrey
Schmitt, Owen Cunningham: Lt. William Pincus,
Richard Tyler; Senator Gillespie, Ralph Dumke.

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For fuller reviews see Photoplay for the months
indicated. For full reviews this month, see
page 18. (a — adult f — family)

BABETTE GOES TO WAR— Columbia ; Cine-
maScope, Eastman Color: Smart suspense com-
edy stars Brigitte Bardot (fully dressed!) as a
lovable French girl who blunders into the un-
derground in Occupied France, while Nazis
think she’s on their side. (A) April

BEN-HUR — M-G-M ; Camera 65, Technicolor:
This epic of Roman imperialism, Jewish pa-
triotism and Christianity’s beginnings is the
best of the big pictures about Bible days. Charl-
ton Heston and Haya Harareet as Judeans,
Stephen Boyd and Jack Hawkins as Romans
stand out in a story that has not only historic
excitement hut ageless emotions and ideas.
(F) February

DOG OF FLANDERS, A — 20th; CinemaScope,
De Luxe Color: David Ladd’s an appealing or-
phan boy in this quaintly charming version of
the children’s classic, with Theodore Bikel as
a gruff but friendly painter. Real Dutch locales
add atmosphere. (F) April

EXPRESSO BONGO— Continental: The British
kid r ’n’ r films with the fast, flashy, funny tale
of tough manager Laurence Harvey and dreamy-
faced young singer Cliff Richard and their
girls. (A) May

GUNS OF THE T1MBERLAND— Warners,
Technicolor: Frankie Avalon makes a pleasing
movie debut opposite Alana Ladd in a lively
action yarn about rancher Jeanne Crain’s war
with logger Alan Ladd. (F) April

HELLER IN PINK TIGHTS— Paramount,
Technicolor: Something new in westerns, with
fine humor and authenticity. Anthony Quinn
bosses a touring theatrical troupe including
Sophia Loren, Margaret O'Brien. (A) May

HOME FROM THE HILL— M-G-M; Cinema-
Scope, Metrocolor: Unusual, emotion-loaded
drama of a tangled Southern family, with Bob
Mitchum and Eleanor Parker as married an-
tagonists. Three talented young players —
George Peppard, George Hamilton. Luana Pat-
ten— stand out in a strange, pathetic triangle.
(A) April

KIDNAPPED — Buena Vista. Technicolor:
Splendid version of Robert Louis Stevenson’s
classic, shot in Scotland, with Jim MacArthur
as the lad seeking a lost inheritance. Peter
Finch is a delightful fightin" fool. (F) May

LAST VOYAGE, THE— M-G-M; Metrocolor:
Tension so taut you can hardly stand it! As Bob
Stack tries to free Dorothy Malone from wreck-
age on a sinking liner, captain George Sanders
fumbles his job. (F) April

MAN ON A STRING — Columbia: Creepy spy
story puts Ernest Borgnine through an ordeal
suggested by the real-life story of Boris Morros,
double agent in the cold war. (F) May

MASTERS OF THE CONGO JUNGLE— 20th;
CinemaScope, De Luxe Color: Beautiful travel
movie, both exciting and truthful, surveys the
African land and people, with narration hy
Orson Welles, William Warfield. (F) May

ONCE MORE, WITH FEELING— Columbia,

Technicolor: Nutty comedy rescued from its
talkiness by two dazzling personalties. Yul
Brynner’s a madly temperamental orchestra
conductor — long-hair! — and the late Kay Ken-
dall is entrancing as his wife. (A) April

OUR MAN IN HAVANA— Columbia, Cinema-
Scope: Spy melodramas and the British Secret
Service are kidded by such experts as Noel
Coward (an agent) and Alec Guinness (the
mild salesman drafted to snoop). (F) March

PLEASE DON’T EAT THE DAISIES— M-G-M ;
CinemaScope, Metrocolor: In a hilarious do-
mestic comedy, Doris Day’s a darling, as she
copes with a theater-critic husband (David
Niven), three uproarious little boys and an
actress “rival” (Janis Paige). (F) May

SCENT OF MYSTERY— Todd; Todd Color,
New Todd Process. Smell-O-Vision: Gorgeous,
cheerful whodunit takes us around Spain in a
couple of days, while a very proper young Eng-
lishman (Denholm Elliott) tries to rescue an
heiress from a murder plot. (F) May

SINK THE BISMARCK! — 20th, CinemaScope:
Suspenseful, fact-based story of the desperate
British effort to find and destroy the Nazis’
mightiest ship. Navy officer Kenneth More
guides the operation from headquarters, with
Wren Dana Wynter. (F) April

SNOW QUEEN, THE— U-I, Eastman Color:
Russian-made cartoon with an American sound
track (including Sandra Dee’s voice) retells
the Andersen fairytale. By turns, it's charm-
ing, creaky, cute and scary. (F) May

TALL STORY — Warners: College comedy
goes after laughs as eagerly as coed Jane Fonda
chases basketball star Tony Perkins. Profs
Ray Walston and Marc Connelly think some-
body should read a book occasionally. (A) May

3RD VOICE, THE — 20th. CinemaScope: Smooth,
ironically tough thriller. Laraine Day kills
her faithless lover, after training adventurer
Edmond O'Brien to impersonate him. Julie
London in on surprise finish. (A) April

TOBY TYLER — Buena Vista. Technicolor:
Chunky Kevin Corcoran's a charmer as a farm
boy who runs away with a small circus, back
in the 1880’s, and discovers show biz is hard
work, as well as fun. (F) April

TOO SOON TO LOVE— U-I: In an inexpen.
sive but well-made film, Jennifer West and
Richard Evans are a touching pair of teenagers
in trouble, finding the law and their parents
equally harsh. (A) May

VISIT TO A SMALL PLANET— Paramount,
VistaVision: A flying saucer lands, and out
pops Jerry Lewis, here to study such odd Earth
customs as love (demonstrated by Joan Black-
man and Earl Holliman). Lots of wild camera
tricks and wacky gags. (F) May

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Heads Lip: Something has gone to Hollywood’s head! The
hairdos these glamour gals are wearing these evenings are
too, too much. Some had no part, like Rookie’s date, Donna
Brooks, Sandra Dee had a sweep cap. Vici Shaw, the
busy mother-actress-homemaker and wife of Roger Smith,
must have hand-sawed her hair into those clipped short ter-
races, each layer on a different level and ending in a tiny
crop on top, similar to Steve McQueen's wife, Neile
Adams’ hairdo. ‘‘Easy to take care of,” Vici shrugs. And
on them it looks wonderful. . . . Jayne Mansfield’s long-
on-the-sides and short-in-the-back arrangement reminds one
of Civil War belles who affected a curl over each shoulder.
But never in platinum shades, I hope. And even Debbie
Reynolds’ evening coiffure suggests an 1865 influence with
her brown hair drawn over the ears from a center part with
a huge diamond pin adorning the top. But weirdest of all. is
Barbara Rush’s oriental-haremish effect with baubles and
beads hanging free from a chignon (so did Connie Stevens’)
plus two long chiffon streamers emerging from the back and
reaching the floor. A real show-stopping performance. And
p the dresses the girls are wearing! Susan Koliner and Dana
Wynter both turned up with exotic Chinese looks. Judging
by Jeanne Crain and Dinah Shore, elegance is back.

Around Town: Sandra Dee is wearing a sweet and tender
smile these days. Reason — a secret romance in her life. And,
probe as one may. Sandra just won’t talk. It’s always amusing
to me how strictly parental producer Ross Hunter can be
to Sandra, the youngster he propelled to fame in “Imitation
of Life.” An actress reports how carefully Ross supervised
Sandra's make-up during the filming of “Portrait in Black.”
“Take that goo off Sandra’s face,” he’d demand. “I want
that fresh young look to come through.” And Sandra, who
had secretly applied the extra make-up herself, would obedi-
ently wipe it off. ... I wonder if the only reason Annette
Funicello was Bobby Rydell’s date, at his own party, was
Paul Anka’s out-of-town engagement? Bobby, a young
singer who is climbing faster than Jack’s beanstalk, was
thrilled with his guests Jack Kelly, Keely Smith who
brought along her own young protege Kim Charney, Mike
Dante, Steve Rowland, Connie Stevens and Jim Fran-
ciscus, A nice party for a talented lad. and Photoplay wishes
him well. . . . The mysterious blond woman who got off the
train in Memphis with Elvis and his dad was Mrs. Davada
Elliott, whom Vernon Presley met in Germany and plans to
marry. Divorced, she has three sons. . . . Jacques Bergerac
and wife, Dot Malone, called their new arrival “Mimi.”

Funny Men: Tony Randall, as emcee, had us in stitches
at the Foreign Press Awards with his pretended ( ? ) jealousy
of Jack Lemmon, who won a Golden Globe for his work in
“Some Like It Hot.” But even in Hollywood, and among the
famous, life’s little frustrations creep up. For instance, all
through Tony’s caustically funny praise of Lemmon, as “the
greatest young comedian” in the business, Jack’s best girl,
Felicia Farr, was in the powder room and missed it all.
And you should have seen her eyes pop when she returned
and beheld Jack’s Globe at his place. “You didn't hear what
he said,” Lemmon sighed. “And he was wonderful.” On one
of her very rare appearances, Marilyn Monroe slithered up
to the dais, swathed to the chin line in furs, accepted her
Globe for “Some Like It Hot,” and slithered right out the
door and home again. And as “international stars of tomor-
row,” members of the Foreign Press chose Barrie Coe,
Angie Dickinson, George Hamilton, Janet Munro,
James Shigata, Troy Donahue, Stella Stevens and
Tuesday Weld. How does their choice compare with yours?

I Believe: Sal Mineo took on more than he could handle
in the “Gene Krupa Story.” I sincerely hope he redeems
himself in “Exodus.” Sal is now a part of that star-laden cast
shooting in Israel. ... I think Rock Hudson’s taste runs to
type. The girl on his arm, these evenings, is Pat McCallum,
George Nader’s present secretary. The girl he married,
Phyllis, was also a secretary, if you remember. ... I think
Rick Nelson is trying to get around the decline in rock V
roll by concentrating on the acting end of his career. And I
truly believe he and brother David will form a twosome to
tour the country this fall. What a sell-out!!!! 1 am fearful
that Tony Curtis’ ambitions are romping ahead of bis tal-
ents. If he actually goes through with his plans to co-star
with Academy Award winner Simone Signoret in “Cheri,"
I, for one, will take to my tree-house and refuse to come down
until it’s over. . . . I’m of the opinion Brigitte Bardot’s de-
mands for making a movie in Hollywood, as to salary, cast
and condition, are too ridiculous to really bother about. . . .
Yul Brynner looking happy with his bride Doris Kleiner
whom he married in Mexico. He announced it April 1st —
the day of the wedding. . . . Diane McBain is one of the
prettiest girls in town. And Angus Duncan, her best beau,
is the luckiest — because Diane prefers him to all others.

Those Separation Blues: I saw it coming — that separa-
tion between Hope Lange and Don Murray. The signs
were obvious but the denials were firm. Because of their two
very small children, I kept hoping for the best and said noth-
ing. But Don has now moved from the home he shared with
his family and will devote his future leisure to his refugee
project on the island of Sardinia. The tip-off to their incom-
patibility was the contrast in Hope’s attitude with Don and
without him. For instance, I noted how happy and relaxed
Hope was on the set of “Best of Everything,” off in a corner

dancing with Steve Boyd
or chatting with Brian
Aherne. Several weeks lat-
er, I saw the Murrays dining
with friends at Chasen’s and
their air of dejection, per-
haps rejection, contrasted
strangely with the gay chat-
ter around them. Friends feel
Hope's sudden leap to star-
dom this past year may have
brought about the break. . . .
Marie McDonald, “The
Body Beautiful” who twice
wed Harry Karl and twice
divorced him, has filed for
divorce against her last hus-
band. agent Lou Bass,
whom she married only a
year ago. Marie’s life, it
seems, is filled with one tem-
pestuous event after another.
. . . And once again those
rift rumors between Jean
Simmons and Stewart
Granger are floating about,
and once again they’re deny-
ing them. . . . No denials,
though, from Audie Mur-
phy. Sad to say, the stories
of the end of his marriage,
are true. The couple have
two children. (Continued)

Chinese look for Susan.

Jeanne Crains semi- fitted brocade.

Dana’s Chinese sheath.

Dinah was decollette; Simone chose a covered-up look.

Twosomes: The old rumors, once again, had Kim Novak
wedding Richard Quine during her visit to London, where
Quine is now directing “The World Of Suzie Wong.” But it’s
a funny thing. I kept remembering Kim’s words at the time
of her romance with Mac Krim. “If it doesn’t happen right
off, it never will. ’ And Kim has known Quine, lo, these many
years. . . . Audiences, at that night club in Las Vegas, were
thrilled to see Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin together on
the same stage and, once again, going through their old rou-
tines. But, rest assured, each has been successful on his own
and each will continue to go his separate way — professional-
ly. But it’s nice to know most of the bitterness is gone. . . .
I hope Debra Paget’s marriage to producer-director Budd
Boetticher brings more happiness than her first one did.

This a n <1 That:

Friends have said
that Eddie Fislier
and Liz Taylor
have bought a plot
of land in Jamaica
on which to build a
dream house. By the
way, happy first an-
niversary to these
two. . . . Pat

Boone’s success has
brought him every-

A neiv dream for Liz and Eddie? thing he wants- —ex-
cept one thing. The

privilege of living and raising his children in California. And
I’m of the opinion, sponsor or no sponsor, a man has a right
to live where he chooses. . . . Heads shake, these days, over
the new Shirley MacLaine, a member of “The Clan” who
has the earmarks of taking herself and her success too big.

Mail Box Corner:

Good News! You
many readers who
asked about the
Nelson Eddy fan
club or the Nelson
Eddy Music Club,
may now write to
Mrs. Marilyn Gav-
ran, 129 Howland
Ave., River Edge,

New Jersey. So hap-
py to have this news
for you. . . . Ste-
phen Boyd ran
away with top hon-
ors this month, with
dozens of fans want-
ing to know more
and more about the
wonderful Messala
of “Ben-Hur.” It’s that Irish smile that beguiles the ladies
I and me, too ) , 1 do believe. Lately, Steve has been beauing
Elana Eden and Dolores Hart around town. His divorce
from Mariella di Sarcana, to whom he was married a few
short weeks, became final the day his ex-wife suddenly ar-
rived in Hollywood — much to Steve’s embarrassment. . . .
To my amazement, Doug Moore of 2605 Angus Blvd., Re-
gina, Saskatchewan, Canada, telephoned the news he’s start-
ing a Sara Hamilton fan club, of all things! I couldn’t be
more flattered. . . . Mrs. Fay Spieler would like to know
more about her favorite actor, Earl Cameron. News, any-
one???? Mr. Chaw Mawk of Staunton, 111., Box 30, wants
you to know about his new type of fan club for Elvis. Each
member receives a booklet about Elvis! ! ! ! And guess who I
love? You correspondents who don't ask for the home ad-
dress of a star, which I can’t reveal. And you wonderful peo-
ple who do enclose a stamped envelope.

Purely Personal: “Cary Grant calling,” the voice on the
telephone announced and sure enough, there was my friend
Cary, enthused over the story I'd written about him in Pho-
toplay. He was happy, too, and full of plans for his movie,
“The Grass Is Greener.” which is now filming in London.
“We have a wonderful cast, Sara Deborah Kerr, Jean
Simmons, Robert Mitehum and Trevor Howard. And
here’s the plan,” he added. “You’re to come to England
while I’m shooting and visit me on the set.” Happy days and
will I ever???? It was the biggest and loveliest bouquet pos-
sible. As the delivery boy carried it in. I reached for the
card and thrilled to the moment. Here were my favorite
blooms from “The Man I Love” — David Ladd, that young
star of “A Dog of Flanders.” “Dear Miss Hamilton,” he
wrote, “Thank you for what you wrote about my picture. It
was really wonderful. Do hope you’ll come see us soon. Love
David.” And love to you, David. . . . Now that they are
married. Jill St. John feels she’s a little too feminine
to take up her husband’s hobby — car racing. And devoted
hubby, Lance Reventlow, adds: “They don’t make overalls
her color anyway.” . . . Joy in the Lee J. Cobh household.
Lee excitedh called to say a baby son arrived. ( Continued )

Jill still says Lance is too fast.

n.PM.r (liquid makeup . . .

Cj,iued tpu. 'tfui ojlcrW ofa a qinil iru (Lcn>&

How long since you’ve had this heavenly glow? (It doesn’t need to start
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Do You Remember: Jane Withers, the plump, plain
child actress who walked in the shadow of Shirley Temple’s
footsteps at 20th Century-Fox studios? All too well. I recall
the famous feud between Jane and Shirley, with Shirley’s
mother alert to Jane’s every move. Today, Jane is happily
married to Ken Errair and a mother, herself, of five happy
children. . . . Do you remember Myrna Loy as a slinky
Oriental siren on the screen who later became a charming
comedienne and Bill Powell’s wife in “The Thin Man”
movies? Today, Myrna is back in Hollywood, free, happy
and preparing for her biggest role in a long time, in “Mid-
night Lace”. . . . And do you remember the shining brunette
beauty of Olivia de Havilland in those early Warner
Brothers movies with Errol Flynn, with Fredric March
and George Brent? Well. Olivia is visiting Hollywood, again,
the wife of Pierre Galante of Paris, the mother of two beau-
tiful children and she’s absolutely as lovely as ever. Well
now, do you remember? As for me, I can’t forget them.

Serious? Fabe and Joan double-date with Frankie and Judi.

Cal York’s Jottings: James Garner is sti11

another Warner Broth-
ers’ star trying to ooze out of his contract. Jim is using the
writers’ strike as a loophole. ... If that romance between
Jeff Chandler and Esther Williams is really serious,
we’ll soon know it. Jeff’s divorce is final. And so is Esther’s.

. . . It took one blind date for Sterling Hayden to know
Mrs. Catherine McConnell of New
York was the one for him. A month later,
Sterling provided his brood with a new
mother . . . Ingrid Bergman, who has
battled ex-husband Rossellini through
the courts of Rome for her children, is
having another child. Husband Lars
Schmidt is delighted. . . . Gina Lollo-
brigida and husband, Mike Skofic, may
become citizens of Canada, where Gina’s
husband hopes to practice medicine. . . .

The Lennon family are firm believers in
the adage “cheaper by the dozen.” Those
four lovely girls who grace the Lawrence
Welk show are now part of a family of
12 — 7 girls and 5 boys. . . . Leo Du-
roeher struck out in his marriage to
Laraine Day, who has applied for a
divorce. Now perhaps Leo will return to
the profession he really loves — baseball.

. . . And Chuck Connors, who recently J
won an Award for his work in “Rifle-
man,” is the happiest ex-ball player in
town. It’s every man to his profession,

I guess. . . . On his trip to New York,
Fabian’s steady companion was lovely
Joan Wynne — Ed Wynne’s daughter. I
figure there must be something serious
between those two, because Fabe took
her to the Opera, along with Frankie
Avalon and Judi Meredith — and
you can guess how he feels about
opera !

Only death could separate the Lanzas.

Heartbreak : They wrote
the final chapter to the
Lanza story with the sud-
den death of Betty Lanza,

Mario’s devoted wife. Live
months after Mario’s gold-
en voice was forever stilled
by death in Rome, his wife
quietly lay down one after-
noon in her Beverly Hills
home and died. “I can find
no physical reason for Mrs.

Lanza’s death,” the doctor
said. But those close to

Betty, knew a heart had broken in despair, in loss, and sorrow. The
four Lanza children — Colleen, 10, Elisa, 8, Damon, 6, and Mark, 4 —
who adored their parents and were adored in turn, were taken hack
East by Betty’s parents and the end of a Holly wood chapter was written.
The Lanzas were a troubled, yet strongly united couple, tossed by the
forces that propelled them into a life of agitation, fame, let-downs and
uplifts. “Mario could take failure,” a friend says of him, “but not suc-
cess.” He became strangely agitated and provoked by the demands that
confound many great artists. And Mario was one of the greatest. But
always with abject devotion. Betty followed his lead. They met when
Mario visited Hollywood during a furlough from his Texas Army camp,
and from that day on. there was none other for Betty Hicks. And none
other for Mario Lanza. After the services in the Hollywood Blessed
Sacrament Church. Mrs. Lanza was placed beside the husband she loved
in the family crypt at Calvary Mausoleum. A tragic loss for Hollywood.

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AT THE PREMIERE THE PHOTOGRAPHER YELLED

•Dehhie ami Harry Karl,
caught by photographers
at the “Ben-Hur"' premiere.

continued

" did you ever
see her

look so happy?”

is Debbie weakening?

"if Harry has anything
to do about it,

Debbie will be
Mrs. Karl by 1961”

continued

sK5»g

AT HOME, THE QUESTION OF A CHILD:

"mommy,
will I have to
call him daddy? ”

Only a very few late, late diners remained in
Lucey’s New Orleans House in Hollywood. It was
past midnight. Two waiters stood idly talking
together around the end of the bar, one yawning
noticeably in anticipation of closing time.

In a secluded part of the restaurant (an area
reserved for those who want privacy), sat a very
attractive woman and her stately-mannered escort
— Toth seemingly unaware of the late hour. They
were barely visible in the soft light from the

candles on the table as they talked in low, serious
tones. Once, the bespectacled gentleman bent over
to whisper in her ear. The words brought a smile
to her face and she whispered something back
into his ear.

Finally, one of the waiters, carrying a pitcher
of water, approached the booth in which Debbie
Reynolds and Harry Karl snuggled as if they
had been hit by cupid’s arrow. They looked up,
startled by the realization ( Continued on page 76)

Little Carrie calls him “ Uncle Harry ” now, and he comes to see her Mommy even more often than Glenn Ford and Boh Neal.

where her

over to

dad, Frank Sinatra, was rehears

scared. That’s

was so

sat waiting

( Continued on page 88)

this is

a secret that
can only be whispered

ROGER SMITH has lied, carried on, deceived
his wife and confused his children almost every
day of his working life. And they know it.

“Roger, it’s seven-fifteen,'’ Vici will say,
as soon as she wakes up in the morning, nudg-
ing her sleeping spouse. And still sound asleep,
with his eyes wide open, he’ll make up a

whopper like, “I forgot to tell you. I don’t
have to go to the studio today.”

From long experience, Vici gets up without
another word, to telephone the studio to check
this wild statement. For she knows that if she
asks Roger again, she will only get the same
answer. And almost ( Continued on page 78)

)>v SARA HAMILTON

TUESDAY WELD

’- Vjv

uiu]

, ^ fc Bkfe.^1

% ^Fri-

'%: 'fh^ ’ **

“% Jkr

Almost all my life, I’ve been an outsider, des-
perately wanting to fit in but never quite able
to make it. For as long
as I can remember, there
has always seemed to be
barriers between me and
other people. I was always standing on the edges
of a crowd, so near I could reach out and touch

them, yet never a
part of them, because
I didn’t have their

(' Continued on page 86 )

by TUESDAY WELD
(as told to Marcia Borie)

My dad is Nick Adams
and I was born on February 23. 1 may be only

two months old, but if my dad
thinks I’m wearing that

baseball uniform he bought —

nMy name is

[

my dad has a lot to learn about girls ”

“My daughter’s not
kidding, girls are
different from boys. ”

by NICK ADAMS

as told to MARTIN COHEN

It was nine months to the day, so I took Carol
to the doctor’s. I guess I was naive. I just figured
this was the day and that she’d go into the hos-
pital and the baby would be born in the after-
noon exactly on schedule. The doctor explained
that the baby didn’t have to arrive like a sched-
uled flight but could come that day or any day
during the next week. So I took her home.

That night Carol woke me.

“Stop talking in your sleep,” she said.

“How far did I get?” I asked.

I should explain that some nights, when I’m
particularly tired, I talk in my sleep and I
always go over the shooting script for that day
and so I asked Carol, “How far did I get?”

“You were saying, ‘I’m Johnny Yuma but l
won’t use my gun unless you force me.’ ”

I told her, “Don’t worry then. The scene is
almost over,” and I went back to sleep. An hour
later she woke me again.

“Call the doctor,” she said.

“That’s not in the script.”

“I mean it’s time for the baby to come.”

I sat up on the side of the bed and turned oh
the light and looked at the clock. I said, “Honey,
you can’t wake up a doctor this time of the night.
You’ll have to wait until morning.”

“Maybe the baby won’t wait.”

I got the doctor on the phone and he spoke to
Carol. He told her to time the muscular con-
tractions and when they ( Continued, on page 90)

My baby's great, honest. But she’s not any-
thing like the books say. They must be wrong.

I brought flowers for Carol. How could I
know little Ally son d be jealous. Girls!

Right off, Allyson out-smarted me. First, she was supposed to be a boy. Who

ever heard of a girl arriving on time?

After l make the formula and empty the diaper bin, the
baby and / have long talks. It’s more fun than baseball!

pit' VI

| -;tf f-p

A sudden ray of sunlight streamed through the tall, high windows of
the Santa Monica courtroom and down into the shadowed center,
just catching the highlights of Lana Turner’s blond hair as she sat,
her head bent low, listening to the probation officer. There was a
wistful look on her face as she heard his words, spoken in low, legal
terms. . . . “So we feel the girl needs a vacation from home,” he was
saying, “and that she will have a better (Continued on page 95)

/WKSo to

cuujtifrw dV a^?

Before I knew what was happening, El put his arm around me.

I wondered how Elvis felt when he fi-
nally got home. I wondered if he'd re-
member me. I 'm Patricia Willert and I'm
the first girl that Elvis hugged and
kissed when he got back to the United
States. Boy, I still can't believe it.

I'll never forget it! It’s all
very confusing, though. Let me tell
you about it . . .

It all started when I read that
Elvis was to land at McGuire Air
Force Base. Since I live only 25
miles away in New Jersey, I planned
to be there for his homecoming. A
photographer-friend of my family,
from a Trenton newspaper, offered
to take me with him.

On Thursday morning, at four
o'clock, my alarm sounded, waking
me up. I jumped out of bed and hur-
riedly washed and dressed. It had
taken days for me to decide upon
the pink sheath dress that I final-
ly wore. The snow was already six
inches deep, when we arrived at
McGuire at six-thirty that morn-
ing. One hour later, Elvis finally
arrived. One poor girl was so flus-
tered that she fainted. I'm sur-
prised that I didn't. Two other
teenagers managed to get in and,
when they discovered that I had
already seen Elvis for a moment as
he got off the plane, they began
asking me questions about him.
"Was he cute?" they whispered.
"What happened to his crewcut?"
Pretty soon a crowd of people were
gathered around listening. I told
them he was much cuter than in his
pictures, and had ( Continued on page 92)

‘Ton looked so

“ Reporters crowded around. ‘My mind’s a blank,’ El saic

sad . . . .whats happening to you? ”

"’Later, I read it was like old times when El got to Memphis, that there was such a crowd he had
to go home in a police car. But / knew a lot had changed for him and 1 wondered how he felt.,,

continued on next page

‘ I’ll see you again,’ he told me. 1 waited at the gate , hoping he’d wave to me as he headed for the train,

“ It's hard for a girl to call up a hoy

He peered out the window of the car, looking for familiar landmarks.

JpjpwsplpS

At home, a new car was waiting for Elvis

omin’ into Memphis, folks. Can I
brush you off, Mr. Presley?” Elvis
grinned, squared his shoulders for the
whisking, and fished in his pocket for a
tip. . . . “Cornin’ into Memphis.” . . .
Cornin’ home. . . . Feeling the train jerk
beneath him, hearing it sigh and creak
as it backed and pushed into the railroad
yard, he was full of the same excitement
and expectancy that had made him un-
able to eat breakfast when he’d come to
Memphis as a little boy. Then, Memphis
had been the ( Continued on page 74)

He was grateful for the Christmas tree they’d saved.

...so Photoplay called you for me.

Fans were waiting, too, and, at home, his favorite meal of black-eyed peas. Yet somehow, the house had a strange, empty look.

Lucille Ball cleared her throat and said, “I’m filing for divorce from Desi.” Instantly
the assembled faces assumed expressions of shock. At this, Lucille smiled, slightly,
and shook her head. “This is no surprise to anyone,” she said. “Every columnist in
the country has hinted at this for months.” Someone asked: “Anything else, Lucy?”
Lucille shut her eyes. Anything else? She weighed the words. “I have tried — so hard
- — to be fair and solve our problems. But now I find it is impossible.” She stopped.

But one more thing remained to be
said, one sentence not weighed,
one cry that burst out on a note
of anguish. Lucille Ball said:

“I’ve had it — I just can’t take
any more!” Few could look back,
as they left, to see if Lucille Ball
was weeping. They were so sure
she was. They walked out quietly.

Why should Lucy and Desi get
a divorce — with two kids, nineteen years of marriage behind them and a million dollar
business empire they’ve built together? Everyone was asking that question. Together,
they’re great. Apart, what have they got? A couple of unhappy children. A
good chance their careers will skid. Besides, Desi’s Catholic — he’ll never marry again
— and Lucy’s pushing fifty; that’s a little late to start all over with somebody else. And
there’s one other thing people who know them feel. That they’re ( Continued on page 92 )

"I just couldn’t
take any more”

by CHARLOTTE DINTER

...our hero, Dion, faces a perturbing plignl^WlifDeauty should he chooseth?

HEEL I

Love and Fashion Passions or The Bachelor's Dilemma
Dion and the 1960 Mack Sennett Bathing Beauties
in this season's swim suit fashions

miss rose marie reid ( S25.00) — joan burke

miss Jantzen— bonnie trompeter

So he went to ponder alone

on a rock

miss sea b ($23.00)— pam tiffin

miss sea nymph ( $12.99) —glenna richards

—heather hewitt

Which girl fashioned this pulsating passion in me?

REEL II:

CAN YOU MAKE DION'S TEMPERATURE RISE?

• You don’t wait for an introduction to be
friendly and say “Hi.”

• You’d say no if a strange boy wanted to take
you home.

• You’d watch his budget and pack the lunch.

• Your make-up looks natural.

• You act natural — no airs.

• You look trim in a bathing suit. (Exercise?)

• You bring your own comb, towel, sun lotion.

• You expect him to carry your beach bag.

• You don’t flirt — or talk about other boys.

• You know how to show that you like him.

• You like books, records, movies.

• On your first date, you insist that he pick you
up at home.

• You can take a joke.

passionate

boiling

tepid

encouraging

improving

doubtful

cold

give-up

hopeless

130

120

110

100

dead

How would you rate with Dion? In red pencil,
fill in 10 points on the thermometer for every yes
answer. For which girl won Dion's heart — and
for where to buy bathing suits — see page 96.

(j[lW

[Ml

> J 1

“Love can be a
terribly sad thing”

Paul is eighteen. Paul Anka, that is. And I’m seventeen. I know I’m
still very young but already I’ve learned a lot about love. And when I
say love — I do love Paul. And he loves me. We’ve known each other
for over a year now. We met at a dinner one night and right away we
got along well together. I think we’ve grown up a lot in that year, but in
a way we’re still kids, I know. I think maybe men are always boys and
perhaps it’s the girl who has to be more mature. Like the day when
Paul’s dark eyes were dancing with — well, sort of mischief, as 1
finished my song one afternoon recently on the Dick Clark tour.

“Annette,” he said, leading me off into a corner of the dark stage,
“I have a wonderful idea. Let’s go shopping for a snake.”

Paul is completely unpredictable and full ( Continued on page 84)

“I never meant
to make you cry”

TROY DONAHUE and DOROTHY PROVINE

They were looking for a place to sun, in complete
privacy— away from the hustle and bustle, so
they traveled an extra half hour to the private Zuma
Beach. They chose a spot where they could watch
the waves break silently against the shore, washing
the different colored shells up onto the beach.

Then, as they lay quietly, not moving or talking,
a sea gull, with wings spread wide, flew overhead.
It caught the eye of the handsome young man with
the bronze body, blond hair and blue eyes, as he
lay on the sand with his back to the warm sun.

“Hey look at that,” Troy Donahue exclaimed, as
the gull flew overhead with the ease of movement
that can come only with a lifetime of experience.

Dorothy Provine lifted her big straw hat which
had fallen down over her eyes. She squinted and,
for a moment, she and Troy watched the bird fly
out to sea till it was just a dot on the horizon.

“It’s mild and peaceful here, huh?” Troy asked,
waiting for Dotty’s reaction. “Kind of reminds me
when Evy and I would go down to the docks in
Bayport and sit for hours ( Continued on page 82)

by RONA BARRETT

HUSBAND OF NATALIE!

Rumored

,.ff -v. .

“May I cut in?” a soft voice
asked her partner, and the next
second Natalie Trundy was in
Charles Hirshon’s arms for the
first time. His fingers, when

NATALIE TRUNDY AND CHARLES HIRSHON
Their next picture will be at divorce court.

HOLLYWOOD— Divorce is the next step for actress
Natalie Trundy, 19, who was married only last Septem-
to Charles Hirshon, 22, son of a wealthy Tahitian
ly. Last week, Charles attempted suicide, gulping
an overdose of sleeping pills. His life was saved by a t'
operator who became alarmed when she hea\,J
call.” informed the manager
"^hey f * ’.°i» ’

this

tragedy could have

What do you think?

they closed around her left hand,
were gentle yet firm ; and the
pressure of his right hand against
the small of her back, as he led
her up and down the crowded col-
lege dance floor, was reassuring.

The first meeting

“I’m Charles Hirshon," he
said. “But that sounds formal . . .
my friends all call me Charlie.”

“And my name’s Natalie
Trundy,” she answered. Charlie,
Charlie, Charlie, she kept saying
to herself, immediately liking the
feel of his name.

“I know,” he said. “I found
out who you were exactly three
minutes and twenty-two seconds
after I first saw you.” And he
told her he had seen her in “The
Monte Carlo Story.” Then he
blushed a little hit and looked
over her shoulder, but a moment

IRUNDY TRIES SUICIDE

Vic Damone invoiced

later he was gazing at her face
again, shyly, yet with an expres-
sion that suddenly made her feel
that she was the most beautiful
girl in the world.

The spell was broken

The music stopped and the
spell was broken. She was just
an 18-year-old Briarcliff College
co-ed again, and he was just
another boy — someone she didn’t
know— who had cut in on her at
a dance. But, as she circled the
floor with her next partner, whom
she did know, she kept waiting
for a soft .voice, Charlie’s soft
voice, to interrupt and say, “May
I cut in?” She didn’t hear his
voice, and she didn’t see him on
the dance floor or on the side-
lines, and all at once she just
wanted to go home.

At the end of that number, she
told her next partner-to-be that
she had a headache and was leav-
ing. Then she took one of her
girlfriends aside and asked her
to make her apologies to the

others. Quickly, she put on her
wrap and slipped out a side door.

She found him again

A cigarette glowed in the dark-
ness. It was Charles Hirshon,
Charlie , sitting on the steps.
“You’re not . . . not going?” he
asked. “Yes . . . no . . . what
happened to you?” she replied.
“Well . . .” he began and, again,
he gazed over her shoulder in
embarrassment as he had back on
the dance floor, “it was a ‘No Cut-
In’ number . . . and I didn’t want
to dance with anyone else . . .
and you had a partner . . .”

A romance begins

In the weeks and months that
followed, Natalie Tiundy and
Charles Hirshon were insep-
arable: bowling and fancy-dress
balls, baseball, tea at the Plaza,
hot-dogs and horse shows. She’d
been a New Yorker since she was
six, but Charlie, a recent arrival
from Tahiti, introduced her to
pleasures and places she didn’t
know existed: jazz concerts at

Nick’s in the Village, ferry rides
to Staten Island, row-boating in
Central Park, old-time laugh
movies on Forty-Second Street.

Most fun of all, was just walk-
ing and talking. They’d both do
the walking but she’d do most of
the talking. She found it easy to
talk to Charlie — about her hopes,
her fears, her past, her plans, her
family, her friends. He’d listen,
really listen, and that was great.
A boy she could really talk to.

And the list of eligible men
who courted Natalie — from Ar-
thur MacArthur, General Douglas
MacArthur’s son, to the nephew
of the Shah of Iran and the son
of General Batista — was reduced
to just one: Charles Hirshon.

He didn’t really know her

When Charles Hirshon asked
Natalie Trundy to marry him, he
knew very little about her.

He did know about her sister
Beverly, whom she adored, and
her father who could waltz better
than anyone ( Continued on page 80)

by JIM HOFFMAN

A SEWING FASHION FEATURE

PHOTOPLAY HELPS
3 HIGH SCHOOL
GIRLS

Jean Willet, 17; Simm Lambonrne. 16; and Mimi Berger, 17

COPY THE
LOOKS OF
A FAVORITE
STAR

COPY

BRIGITTE BARDOT

“I LOVE SOFT LACE
TRIMMINGS, GENTLE
BOUFFANT SKIRTS AND
GINGHAM CHECKS.”

COPY

mm novak

“I LOVE ELEGANCE”

Left: Simm’s lavender voile dance
dress is Simplicity Pattern 3445. Kim
would accessorize it to the hilt with
bag, gloves, pumps and, often, even
pearl necklaces, in the same shade of
lavender. Pendant necklaces and ear-
clips are other Novak trademarks.

Opposite: Jean in demure ruffles on
pink gingham, so typically Brigitte,
sewn from Simplicity Pattern 3444.
Brigitte sometimes adds a white
apron, a tiny matching kerchief and
pearls. Other Bardot trademarks are
rickrack trim and tailored blouses with
rows of lace. Her billowy skirts are set
over full, lace-trimmed petticoats.

All dresses sewn from Simplicity Patterns.

For accessory and fabric news turn to page 73.
For the stars’ beauty secrets, just turn the page.

COPY

DORIS DAY

“I LOVE SOFT
CLASSIC SUITS,
TAILORED
SHIRTS, AND
CAPRI PANTS.”

Above: Mimi’s sleeveless cardigan
cotton suit, with neat braid trim, is
Simplicity Pattern 2854. Doris might
add a tiny knotted kerchief at the neck,
large gold hoop earrings, gold bangle
bracelets, and white flatties. Or, she
might take off her jacket, add a wide
leather belt and make a tailored dress.
Other Doris Day trademarks are short
white gloves and large leather bags.

COPY

THE

Jean’s brilliant blue eyes are
widened, a la Brigitte, with a band of
brown eyeliner, brushed on the
lashline by Beauty Editor June Clark.

BEAUTY

SECRETS

To lengthen and arch eyebrows from
Simm-shape to Kim-curve, gray and
brown pencils are used. Opaque make-
up stick under brow gives sweeping look. ;

OF A

FAVORITE

STAR

U v: jJXSSStk eL

To make Mimi’s bright smile look even

more like Doris9, a really red lipstick is *

brushed slightly below curve in lower

lip, carried to lip corners for balance.

minutes more than last night's pin-up . . .

wake , aj

Only 20

■

Tall, lithesome Jean Willet breezed into the studio from
her dancing class, brought enough vitality along with her

(to perk up weary editors and photographer. Interested in
everything, she was most intrigued with the silky fake
lashes that were added to her own. (Result: giggles, to-
gether with the kitten-eyed BB look). Ivory foundation

L - —

With some of the aloofness of Kim Novak, Simm detached
herself from goings-on to worry over her lines in an up-
coming school play. Biggest make-up problem: eyebrows.
(Beauty Editor June suggested some artful tweezing to
simulate Kim’s graceful arc). Cream base make-up was
used in a blush tone. The upper lip was carefully drawn

—

was used for Jean, with a slightly darker tone applied
just above the jawline to create the hollow of BB s bone
structure. Deep blue shadow, brushed on and blended up
and out toward eye corners, gave depth and density. Her
brows were perfect. Lips outlined a trifle beyond natural
shape in deep pink, filled in paler tone, for pout .

into a well-defined cupid’s bow with a brush dipped in
violet-pink lipstick. Eye make-up here was heavy: black
liquid liner was used on upper and lower lashes, winging
straight out at corners; a line of soft blue shadow fol-
lowed and, over all, a blur of misty silver-gray. Lashes
were powdered, swirled with black waterproof mascara.

Together with Doris Day’s ingratiating smile, Mimi Berger
has her warm friendliness too. But not as many freckles!
Taking a tip from Doris, Mimi neatly veiled her few
freckles with cake make-up, chosen in the shade of the
freckles themselves. To give height and boldness to her
eyebrows (especially at inner corner), light brown pencil

was applied in feathery, hair-like strokes. A touch of
amber-brown shadow brought out her eyes nicely, a bit
of petroleum jelly added sheen, brown mascara length-
ened her lashes. Her own high spirits colored her cheeks,
and just a slight widening of her mouth gave her The
Look. Her hair was spray-set in curving tendrils.

Only new Bobbi waves while you sleep
. . . brushes into a softly feminine,

lasting hairstyle!

If you can put up your hair in pin curls,
you can give yourself a Bobbi — the
easy pin curl permanent. It takes only twenty
minutes more than your regular setting !
Then, the wave “takes” while you sleep because
Bobbi is self-neutralizing. In the morning you
wake up with a permanent that brushes into a
soft, finished hairstyle with the lasting body only
a permanent gives to make your hair-do hold.
Complete kit with curlers, only $2.00. Refill, $1.50.

The most convenient permanent of all— home or beauty shop!

New! Now

more than ever

Kotex is confidence

Kotex napkins now give you a new, incredibly soft covering,

These softer, tapered napkins have pleated ends for a smoother fit.

And the Kimion center provides far better, longer-lasting protection.

\ :>N are trademarks of Kimber

COPY THE LOOKS OF
A FAVORITE STAR

WHERE TO BUY PHOTOPLAY FASHIONS

Simplicity Printed Patterns shown on pages OS-
69 are available at local stores everywhere, or,
to order by mail, send money, size and pattern
number to Simplicity Pattern Co., Inc., Dept.
PH, 200 Madison Ave., New York 16, N. Y. For
where to buy accessories, write to addresses
listed below.

Copy Brigitte Bardot's feminine accessories.
Pink and white gingham check stylized sandal:
Pappagallo, 122 Fifth Ave., N. A ., N. A .

Pink and white gingham check "‘Sporty hood :
Glentex Scarfs, 417 Filth Ave., N. A ., N. A.

26" French Baroque 18-millimeter pearl rope:
Richelieu Pearls, 393 Fifth Ave., N. Y., N. A .

Copy Kim Novak's elegant accessories.

Lavender wig a la Kim Novak (page 69) :

Joseph Fleischer, 12 W. 27th St., N. Y., N. Y.

Copan blue chiffon scarf with violet fringe:

Glentex Scarfs, 417 Fifth Ave., N. A., N. J .

Orchid and blue imported French bead bag:
Eugenie Buchner, 347 Fifth Ave., N. Ah, N. Y.

Simulated pearl and rhinestone pendant neck-
lace and matching earclips:

Imperial Pearl Syndicate, 681 Fifth Ave., N. A.,
N. Y.

Foam lilac leather pump:

Pappagallo, 122 Fifth Ave., N. A., N. A.

The dress: Simplicity 3445; Junior and Misses’
sizes 11-18, 60C Dumari Lovely Lady voile, qual-
ity 3600, 37/38" wide, color 16N.

Kim stars in “Strangers When We Meet" (Col.).

Copy Doris Day's tailored accessories.

Black cotton Capri slacks:

Simplicity 3257.

Gold hoop earrings and gold bangle bracelets:
Coro, 47 West 34th Street, N. A., N. A’.

White and navy geometric calf spectator duties:
Pappagallo, 122 Fiftli Ave., N. Y., N. A .

White calf shoulder-strap mail pouch with
enamel heraldic key:

Lona Handbags, Inc., 136 Madison Ave., N. Y.,
N. Y.

18" pure silk navy and white polka dot square:
Glentex Scarfs, 417 Fifth Ave., N. A., N. A.

One Button white cotton shorlie gloves:
Wear-Right, 244 Madison Ave., N. A., N. A'.

The suit: Simplicity 2854; Junior Misses’ and
Misses’ sizes 11-18, 50C Fuller Sailtone 38/39"
wide. Blouse: Omega, 55% dacron polyester
45% avron rayon, 44/45" wide.

See Doris in M-G-M’s “Please Don’t Eat the
Daisies” and U-I’s “Midnight Lace.” Be sure to
hear Doris as she sings on the Columbia label.

Blond real hair ponytail :

Joseph Fleischer, 12 West 27th St., N. A ., N. A.
The dress: Simplicity 3444; Junior and Misses’
sizes 11-18, 60 4- Dan River Virginia Checks,
99102, color 69-pink cotton, 35-36” wide.

See Brigitte in “Babette Goes to War’ (Col.).

ELVIS COMES HOME

Continued from page 54

biggest town he could ever imagine. It
was bigger than Tupelo. It was even big-
ger than Corinth, Miss. It had dime stores
with basements. It had a zoo and Clar-
ence Saunders’ pink marble palace that
was opened to the public after its grocery-
magnate builder lost the property.

Pressing his forehead against the train
window, Elvis felt the magic of Memphis
again.

As a child, in East Tupelo, he didn’t
travel much. His mother liked to keep him
near her.

“I never saw a woman keep better track
of a boy,” neighbors said.

And, besides, there wasn’t much money
for traveling.

Playing in front of the white house in
which he was born, he never did think
much about the strange world of cities.

Sometimes, he’d follow the narrow road
in front of his house around two bends to
the highway that ran from Memphis to
Birmingham.

“Which do you reckon is bigger?” one
of his cousins asked, one day.

“Dunno,” he replied. “Memphis, I guess.”

Now, as his train chugged to a stop,
thinking of all these things, he felt a mo-
ment of panic.

“Maybe I shouldn’t even get off,” he
thought. “Gosh, I’ve seen so many places,
been gone so long. Maybe everything has
changed. I couldn’t stand being let down.”

“Memphis, all off for Memphis,” the
conductor called.

Buttoning his coat against the outside
cold, Elvis moved to the door.

There was a big crowd waiting for him
at the station, and, to help him get through
them and get home more quickly, they’d
arranged for him to drive home in a police
squad car. He smiled and waved at the
crowd, grateful to them for being there,
and for not forgetting him. And then the
car started on its way toward home.

Home meant many things

When he had gone off to the Army, home
had meant many things. It meant his
mother, the quiet, proud woman whom
he called “Baby” in moments of deepest
affection. She’d died before he left for
Germany, but she’d seen him off to the
Army.

It had meant the great, square red-
brick house on the edge of town with
his own image wrought in the costly iron
fence. He knew some people thought
the fence an affectation, but he’d put it
up as a symbol. Not many young men of
his age, from such humble beginnings,
could buy such a big house with such a
fancy fence for their parents.

The fence had been an extra gift to Mom
and Dad. At the time he’d ordered it, it
had seemed important.

And Memphis, of course, meant the gang
of fellows with whom he’d gone to school
. . . Saturday nights at the White Castle
hamburger stand . . . cruising down side
streets with the crowd . . . talking about
girls . . . swapping jokes . . . hanging
around in front of the picture show with
a sack of popcorn in one hand and an
eye out for a pretty girl.

Home had meant, just before he went
into the Army, sleeping late.

“I’ll sleep ’til noon tomorrow,” he said
to himself.

That was part of being home.

When he awoke the next day, he couldn’t
remember where he was. He’d been sleep-
ing heavily, dreaming — what was it? —

something about Friedberg and Col. Park-
er and a Hollywood sound stage. None
of it was clear.

Rubbing his eyes, stretching, he tried to
orient himself. Time and place were con-
fused.

Then, sitting up, he saw the huge wall-
to-wall mirror reflecting the loom and the
placard on one wall that read: “Let not
your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God,
also in Me. Jesus never fails.” In another
corner stood a Christmas tree with a lot
of toy Teddy bears and other gifts.

Sure, now he knew where he was. He
was home.

Sleepily, groggily, he let his mind
wander. Thoughts were out of order.
Probably Mom was already seeing about
his lunch. Everything seemed awfully
quiet, though.

But, as the idea entered his mind, rea-
son dispelled it. He remembered, now.
The house was filled with memories of
Mom. He would never sell this house or
move away from it, he thought.

Elvis flopped back onto the pillow and
rolled over to look at the bedside clock.
Five o’clock.

Five o’clock! Surely he hadn’t slept
all day. He shook his head to clear it
better. Downstairs, a noise at the back
door sounded like the milkman.

Five o’clock. He’d awakened at 5 a.m.
Army time! And was he hungry. He was
so excited, though, that he forgot to eat
for most of the day. It was hard to believe
he was really home.

Being home, didn’t necessarily mean
sleeping late, it seemed. How long would
it take him to readjust to the old life?
Would home ever be the same again? he
wondered. How did one pick up old
habits abandoned two years before?

Looking back

Later, after the town was awake, he
drove to the city. About a mile from the
town, on Highway 51, he stopped at Forest
Hill Cemetery to visit Mom’s grave. When-
ever he was home, he’d always go there at
least once a week.

Snow, dirty because it was several days
old, sat like white caps on telephone poles
and lay in disconnected patches on lawns.

Back in home territory, snow reminded
him of things he’d almost forgotten, things
that snow in Germany and New York
had failed to recall.

In Mississippi, when he was little, they’d
had an ice-box that drained in a tub by
the back door. He could tell how cold
the day was by looking out at the ice
on the drain tub. Sometimes, on cold,
cold days, Mom would make boiled cus-
tard and set it on the back steps in a
fruit jar. It would freeze just a little
bit. Nothing tasted better.

Then, when it snowed, he’d make snow
ice-cream.

“Add a little sugar and vanilla,” his
grandmother directed.

That was good, too.

Braking in front of a hamburger stand,
he began, for the first time since he got off
the train, to feel really at home. How
many times had he swung through the
doors, whistling, feeling the change in his
pocket and feeling proud because it was
his. The first week he’d been paid as a
truck driver, he’d stopped here for coffee.

He’d sat on the high stool, sipping hot
java, and he’d grinned so broadly, the
fellow next to him had noticed.

“What are you so happy about, son?”
the fellow had said.

“I’m happy,” he said, “because I’m
working. I just got paid. I feel good. I
may even eat two hamburgers.”

This morning, his first day at home, he
sat at the same lunch counter and felt

good again — but not quite so good as he sa
had with his new truck driver’s pay. la

“I had all the confidence in the world, SI
that morning,” he reflected. “I was V
working. I was a big man. There was
nothing to worry about.

“Today — I’m not sure how everything bs
is going to turn out. tr

“I wonder if I’ll ever feel as sure of
myself again as I did when I was picking tr
up my first pay check?”

He felt sudden pity for all the untried lo
boys everywhere who hadn’t found out,
yet, their own weaknesses.

Out on the sidewalk, he strode along the
main streets of Memphis and looked at it
the buildings.

“It’s strange,” he thought, “I always tl
remembered the main street as wider — all ]t
the time I was in Germany. And I
thought the buildings were taller.” v

His folks 81

People passing on the street sounded t)
funny. To him, brought up among ),
Southern accents, a Southern accent o
sounded surprisingly novel, now. But, oh,
how precious! tf

A little boy stopped him.

“Beg your pardon, suh, but do you ]
know what time it is?” [j

“Going on nine.”

“Thank you, suh.” v

The child scampered down the block.

What was it about that contact that
gave him a twinge? He knew. It was the
“suh.” The little boy had spoken in ,
the way he’d been taught to speak as a
child. j

“Elvis,” his grandfather had said, “as n
far as you’re concerned, ‘Yes, sir’ is one j
word when you’re addressing your elders.

“And don’t you ever forget it.”

The familiar accents, the little boy who
addressed him as “suh,” conjured mem-
ories that hadn’t occurred in years. He
was swept by a wave of affection for
everybody on the sidewalk.

When he was tiny, he’d been introduced
to cousins thrice removed, to aunts by
marriage, to courtesy aunts, to myriad
family connections, and if he’d asked just
what the connections might be, the answer
was usually, “Why, Elvis, they’re some of
your father’s folks.”

It didn’t take him long to realize that
being some of his folks didn’t always mean
there was a blood kinship. There was
simply a common bond of understanding,
culture, heritage based on a remote tie.

But genuine concern for one another
was the cement that held the vast, loosely
related clan together.

The people he passed on the streets,
were from his home town. They, too, had
eaten at the same hamburger stands,
maybe gone to the same high school,
swatted the same mosquitoes as he had.

Their soft accents were those of his
East Tupelo cousins. He loved them all.
They were his “folks.” He’d never un-
derstood this until today.

"Without realizing it, he had taken the
direction toward the Mississippi river.
Shops and office buildings were giving
way to warehouses. When a truck groaned
out from one of these, he waved to
the driver. The driver waved back and,
again, he felt a kinship.

Truck drivers were friendly people —
especially Memphis truck drivers. He was
proud of having been one of the fra-
ternity.

The mighty Mississippi

He could smell the Mississippi, now, and
he remembered the first time he’d seen
it.

His fitth grade teacher, Mrs. Grimes, had

said to the class, “Elvis was in Memphis
last weekend, and I’ll bet he saw the
Mississippi river. Did you, Elvis?
Would you like to tell the class about it?”

He was still living in East Tupelo at
the time, and his geography class had
been studying the Mississippi and its
tributaries.

He had memorized the names of the
tributaries and learned to spell them.

“Tell the class how the Mississippi
looked,” Mrs. Grimes suggested.

“Well,” he hesitated, “it looked like
— like a river.”

He didn’t want to tell the truth about
it.

How would it sound to say, “To me,
the Mississippi doesn’t look very big.
It’s not as big as the Tennessee.”

Nobody would believe that. The class
wouldn’t even believe he’d seen it. But
that's how his first look at the river had
affected him.

Because the class had been studying
the river, he’d asked his father to drive
him across it the first thing when they
got to Memphis.

As they mounted the long approach to
the river bridge, he had craned his neck,
straining for a glimpse of the flood.
There’d be more water in a minute, he
thought, than he could imagine.

But, when the river came into view, he
was disappointed.

“Is that the Mississippi, sure enough?”

“You bet.”

“It doesn’t look so special to me,” he
said, almost whispering.

Today, though, as he came in sight of
the water, it seemed bigger than he’d re-
membered. No, maybe it wasn’t bigger.
But it was different.

He looked at the Mississippi with an
emotion he couldn’t analyze.

“Say,” a man on the river front said,

approaching him, “aren’t you Elvis
Presley?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Well, I hear you been in Germany,”
the man said. “Guess you’re mighty glad
to get home. Guess it’s pretty good to see
that river again.

“I know how it is. When I got home
from France, first thing I wanted to do was
see the river. Whatever else might have
changed, I knew the Mississippi hadn’t.”

He nodded. He was trying to figure out
why he felt differently about the river,
today; why it looked bigger.

“Ain’t the size of the river that makes
it so great,” the old man continued. “It’s
what she stands for. She’s the very
heai't of the country.

“There’s nothing more American.”

“You’re right, I expect,” he said. “I
never thought of it that way before.”

Walking back, toward town and his car,
he wondered at himself.

“Everything’s the same, but it looks
different. I never realized, before, how
important some things are.”

When he turned into the gates at
Graceland, he didn’t even glance at the
fancy fence. Sure, he was glad he’d
been able to buy a beautiful home before
Mom died, but his pride in ability to buy,
wasn’t the same.

“Baby,” he whispered, “I guess you
know my Army record was good enough.
I hope so. Maybe I owe some things to
good luck, but whatever I am as a man,
I owe to you.”

That night, he went out with his
friends; the same crowd he’d introduced
to Nick Adams, four years ago, when Nick
visited him in Memphis.

When he stopped by their homes to get
them, he was surprised at how modest
some of the houses were. He’d never
thought of them as cramped.

But the welcome he got from his
friends and their parents, made him want
to sing.

“Hey, El,” one of the boys shouted, “tell
us about the German girls.”

“Well,” he began, “it was kinda funny
when they couldn’t speak English. We
would just sit and make funny signs at
each other, or wave and giggle.”

“Could they dance rock ’n’ roll?” his
friend asked.

“I guess so,” he answered. “But, you
know, I can’t. I can slow dance a little,
but I never bothered to learn to bop or
anything like that.”

“Did you leave any girls behind?” some-
one else asked.

“No, not any specific ones,” he said.
“There was one little girl, whose father
was in the Air Force. I was seeing quite
a lot of her, but there was no romance.
The papers pictured her as the girl I left
behind, but that wasn’t quite right.”

“Elvis,” everyone said, “we’re glad to
see you. We’ve missed you.”

This was great, because he knew they
were welcoming him as a boy they’d
watched grow up, not as a famous person-
ality. The welcome would have been
the same for any old, valued friend just
back from the Army.

“El, I thought maybe you would have
changed, but you haven’t . . . not one bit.
You’re just the same guy who went away.
Isn’t that right, fellows? Isn’t that the
same old El?”

“Oh, now,” he remonstrated, “everyone
changes some.”

“No siree, you’re just the same.”

But he knew it wasn’t so.

“I’ll never again,” he thought, “be the
boy they used to know. They aren’t the
boys I knew. We’re men. Today, I’m
beginning to find out the kind of a man
I am.” —NANCY ANDERSON

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DEBBIE REYNOLDS

Continued from page 36

that the place was nearly empty. Debbie
rose hurriedly, carefully adjusting her
mink stole around her bare shoulders
while Karl signed the check. Her low-cut
bouffant gown glimmered in the flickering
light, illuminating the actress in a beau-
tiful, goddess-like elegance.

Both appeared to be engrossed in serious
thought as they walked past the stares of
the remaining patrons, to the door. Harry
reached over and put his arm affection-
ately around Debbie’s waist as he pushed
the door open. They exchanged tender
smiles.

“They come in often,” the waiter yawned
again. “Always the same booth; they just
sit and talk. You know what? I’d be will-
ing to bet that they get married one of
these days.”

The waiter certainly wasn’t talking
through his hat, either. From the bistro
chatter buzzing around town, the past few
months, and the way Harry and Debbie
have been acting together, it could happen
any time.

As one leading Hollywood columnist put
it: “Someone very close to Debbie believes
that she’ll marry Karl, who has been in
love with her for a long time.”

With that news item, there was renewed
speculation that Debbie might marry the
shoe tycoon, now that she is free to wed
under California law. Will she? Nobody
really knows, least of all Debbie.

“Right now, marriage is the farthest
thing from my mind,” she says. “I don’t
even think about it. I’m not saying I will
never marry again. How can anyone pre-
dict that? If marriage does come, it will
be because I believe it is the best thing
for myself and my children.”

It has always been Debbie’s philosophy
that whatever happens is for the best or
the worst, depending on what you make
of it. “I think I’m having a great time
now,” she told an interviewer recently,
“and I think I’ll keep right on doing that.

. . . Inside, I’m happy. I really am, but it
has taken time to acquire that philosophy.”

As for Harry Karl, she comments: “He
is a very kind man, a very generous man.
He is one of the most generous people I
have ever known, and I don’t mean just in
gifts. I mean in the open-hearted way he
deals with people and their problems.

“He’s also fun to be with. People think
of Harry as being very dignified, and he
does have dignity. But he also has a quiet
wit and a wry way of looking at things.”

“Strictly business”

At first, Karl had never been consid-
ered a top contender for Debbie’s affec-
tions. Many thought he was running a
poor third to Bob Neal and Glenn Ford.
Karl, a well-built six-footer, first met
Debbie five years ago in connection with
the Thalians, a charity organization that
aids hospitalized children. She’s always
taken an active part in the work and Karl,
throughout the years, has been one of its
chief advisors and benefactors.

On April 23rd, of last year, Debbie and
Harry dated for the first time. They dined
at a Sunset Strip restaurant. Debbie
termed the date, “strictly for business
purposes.” The shoe store tycoon turned
over a $10,000 check to her for the
Thalians. After that, they dated again and
again.

At that time, Debbie was dating no one,
P and Harry was playing the field of several
glamor girls. After his brief marriage to
Joan Cohn, he began calling on Debbie.
Their dates became more frequent and

his attentions more notable. Last Christ-
mas, for example, he gave her an emerald
necklace, earrings and bracelet valued at
$40,000. Pretty fancy baubles, even for a
millionaire.

Lately, she has been seeing Harry two
and three times a week. And it was pretty
obvious that “some of the business” at
hand was romance. As Debbie, herself, said
in a recent interview, “Before I was mar-
ried I dated, but I never dated just to
date. I liked to go out with someone I
really liked, or not go out at all.”

After her divorce, Debbie felt the same
way. She was selective about the men she
dated. When friends invited her out with
them, because they had a man from out of
town and wanted to line up a date for him,
Debbie would agree to go. But she was al-
ways careful to go in her own car and come
home in her own car, so there were no
problems. "That way the evening is easy
for me,” she explained. “If I want to go
home early, I can go home early. I don’t
have to take anybody out of his way. If
I’m stuck, I can come unstuck.” If she
didn’t like the way a man behaved, if she
thought he was drinking too much, for ex-
ample, she was always free to go home —
and she did just that.

What possible reason could Debbie have
for seeing so much of Harry? That was
the question asked by many. Here was a
man more than twenty years older than
she. A quiet-mannered man. Definitely not
like the carefree, party-loving Bob Neal,
who was then her leading admirer. Cer-
tainly Karl couldn’t be a match for the
dashing actor Glenn Ford, who came into
the picture later. But Karl outlasted both
of them and Walter Troutman (an Eastern
admirer) as well.

After her divorce, Debbie found herself
meeting and dating many different men.
“I get many different kinds of conversa-
tions,” she told a reporter, “and although
I find them all amusing, I don’t believe a
word they say. Not a word.” But though
Debbie may have been a bit cynical about
the “lines” most of the men she dated were
handing her, she never grew cynical about
the men themselves. “Once you grow
cynical toward the other sex in general,”
she said, “you’re lost.”

Debbie was asked, in an interview,
whether the fact that she’s a divorced
woman means men make more passes at
her.

“Verbal passes, yes,” she answered. “Not
physical passes. It’s like a football game,
I keep wondering who’s going to throw the
longest pass.

“I toss it right back,” she added, “as if it
were a hot potato. But it’s stimulating. I
have to be alert.”

And Debbie also added that when, fi-
nally, she meets a nice, attractive man,
and he is honest with her, she will be able
to know that he is being honest. Perhaps,
her friends speculate, it is Karl’s honesty
that has out him out in front of the others.

He is often her escort to banquets and
other formal Hollywood events. They even
go bowling together, if you can imagine
that. But the thing that they like to do
best, is see movies. Debbie admits to being
a movie fan all her life. Harry often picks
her up at the house and they head for
the new movie in town, watching it raptly
as they munch on popcorn.

Debbie sees Harry more than any other
man, and it is apparent that he is the
Number One man in her life in all re-
spects. This is not amazing to those who
know Karl.

Amazing is the fact that rarely has a
good photograph ever been taken of him.
In nearly every picture, the gray-haired
millionaire appears to be out of place,
looking expressionless. His charm and
well-groomed appearance, however, make
him quite a lady’s man. He’s one of the

best dressed men in town. He even has
his own tailor. His overwhelming at-
tentiveness to his female companions on
dates, is beyond reproach. Harry always
has been surrounded by beautiful women.

Nearly everyone — his ex-wives excluded
— agrees that he is a very likable fellow.
Debbie admires his gentle authority, his
quiet wit, his ability to converse on many
topics. Furthermore, Debbie has developed
more appreciation for older men since her
divorce. She realizes Eddie’s immaturity
was a major factor in destroying their
marriage. She doesn’t want to make the
same mistake again.

Debbie would never have to consider
that Harry might be marrying her for
her money. She is on her way to being
a millionairess, but he has dealt in mil-
lions for many years. Security would be
assured if she married him.

To speculate whether this fast friendship
will lead to true love and a marriage, re-
quires some knowledge of Harry Karl and
his background. Most people know little
about him, except for his benefactions and
his marriages (sometimes synonymous).

About Karl

Three times Karl married and all three
ended in stormy divorces. His first wife
was Ruth Winters. The only satisfaction
Karl gained out of this union, was becom-
ing the father of a daughter, Judie. She’s
now 21-years-old. She’s married and a
mother, making Harry a proud grandfather.

His second marriage was to Marie (com-
monly known as “The Body”) McDonald.
This was the stormiest of them all. They
were wed, unwed and re-wed. Their do-
mestic brawls became periodic headlines
in the newspapers. Two children were
adopted by the couple in an effort to sal-
vage things. Shortly after that, Marie be-
came pregnant — nine months later making
Harry the father of another daughter. All
this didn’t help, however. Finally, on April
16, 1958 (eleven years after they first said
their vows), Karl divorced the actress for
the third and final time. It was a year
after they had reconciled, again, following
the mysterious (still unsolved) kidnaping
of “The Body.” The final parting, sur-
prisingly enough, was not a bitter one.

“Marie has a wonderful career ahead of
her,” Harry declared to the newspapers.
“She’s a great girl, but there is no longer
any affection between us.”

Debbie and Harry continued their so-
called “business” dates up until last sum-
mer. Something happened. Their dating
stopped and it was Bob Neal who, again,
moved into Debbie’s life. They dated on
the Coast and in New York. His gift of a
diamond brooch started off rumors that
he had proposed to the actress. Where was
Harry Karl? He was involved in a ro-
mance, but not with Debbie.

Harry suddenly began courting Joan
Cohn, the lovely widow of Harry Cohn,
who’d been head of Columbia Pictures.
One of Karl’s associates claimed his sud-
den new interest was “to forget Debbie.”
But whatever the reason was, it led to
marriage last September and another
marital downfall for Karl.

Joan sued him for divorce after being
married for only twenty three days, charg-
ing he treated her with “extreme cruelty
and wrongfully inflicted extreme suffer-
ing.” No one in Hollywood has been able
to determine what ended the marriage so
swiftly. But they were apparently twenty-
three costly days for Karl. Joan claimed
the marriage had cost her $54,000 — what
she lost in monthly inheritance payments
under her deceased husband’s will — and
requested a total alimony sum of $110,000.
Harry paid. Not long afterward, Harry was
back in Debbie’s life.

Always conscious of appearances, Debbie

would not date Harry until Mrs. Cohn
had sued for divorce. But once the suit
was filed, they became steady companions.
Harry often calls at the house, bringing
gifts for young Todd and Carrie as well
as for Debbie.

One of the family

Bob Neal slowly became Debbie’s second
date choice. While they were making “It
Started With a Kiss” and “Gazebo,” Deb-
bie and Glenn Ford became good friends.
They dated, but it was always Harry Karl
who managed to take her out twice as
many times. True, Glenn put on his tux-
edo and took Debbie to the Foreign Press
Awards. That night, Karl was dateless at
the Moulin Rouge, but the next night he
was again with Debbie dining at La Rue’s.
It’s also true Debbie had dinner with
Glenn three nights in a row, but people
who know Debbie well said this didn’t
change anything. Karl was still number
one on her list.

“I think Debbie likes Harry,” one of her
friends told this writer, “because she has
known him so long that he’s kind of like
a member of the family. She feels secure
with him . . . more relaxed.”

And Karl is practically a member of the
family, too. He’s well-liked by both Deb-
bie’s mother and father. Debbie’s brother,
Bill Reynolds, recently married a twenty-
year-old Glendale secretary, Jean Arntsen.
None other than Karl, escorted Debbie to
the wedding. At the reception, in the home
of the bride’s mother, Debbie and Harry
chatted merrily with the guests. It was a
small wedding (about 150 guests) and
just close friends of both families were
invited. Debbie’s mother even designed
and made the wedding gown for Joan,
who is cute enough to be in the movies,
herself.

Both Debbie and Harry appeared ex-
tremely happy for Bill, who had been liv-
ing at Debbie’s two-story English-style
brick home in Holmby Hills. With Eddie
Fisher gone, Debbie had been leery about
staying in the place without the protection
of a male. Bill had set up housekeeping in
a room that the former owners built as a
bombshelter.

Not only did Harry attend the cere-
mony, but he and Debbie drove the newly-
weds to Squaw Valley, during the Winter
Olympics week, for their honeymoon. The
trip was made in Harry’s limousine.

Over the past six months, Debbie has
maintained that she would marry, again,
when the right man comes along.

“I’m not looking for any particular type
of man,” Debbie told a reporter at the El
Morocco in New York. “I wasn’t looking
for any specific type before my marriage
to Eddie, and I’m not now.”

However, the day her divorce was filed
against Eddie, she was understandably
bitter.

“I’m not interested in men at the mo-
ment. If I go out at all it will be with
old friends, just to have an escort. I don’t
make new associations easily.”

Yet Debbie has always liked people. She’s
found that she can be hurt by them easily
and that, also, she is very sensitive to the
impressions she’s making on others. She
can tell, almost immediately, whether
people like her or not.

For a while, after the divorce, Debbie
built a wall around herself, to keep from
being hurt by people. In the past few
months, dating almost from the time that
she and Harry Karl began to be seen to-
gether so much, that wall has started to
come down. “I started to feel alive again,”
Debbie said.

The day she received her final divorce
papers (one year after she filed), Debbie
cautiously continued to be noncommittal
about her romantic status. Queried about

the rumors that she would wed Harry
Karl, she sternly stated in her dressing
room at Paramount (she was making “The
Pleasure of His Company”): “Harry Karl
is a good friend. I think very highly of
him. As for marriage, we never talked
about it.

“My main concerns are for my children
and my career. Todd just turned two
years old and Carrie Frances is three-and-
a-half. They’re not infants anymore, and
they need a lot more love.”

As Debbie spoke, she kept glancing at
a new photograph of Todd on her dress-
ing room table. He looks older than his
age. His features are more like Debbie’s
and resembles Eddie Fisher only a little
now that he is older. But Carrie Frances
has inherited many of the crooner’s char-
acteristics. Lately, Debbie has managed,
despite a heavy work load, to spend more
time with the children.

Maybe it’s partially a guilt complex.
The divorce from Eddie had shattered
Debbie both mentally and physically. To
overcome the pain, she buried herself in
work. Five pictures in a row took her
away from Todd and Carrie for weeks at
a time. “No more separations from now
on,” vows Debbie. “Where I go, the chil-
dren go.”

Debbie’s conflict

Now that Debbie’s brother Bill is mar-
ried and not living with her anymore, her
fears about being without protection, at
night, are back. Even while her brother
lived with her, Debbie kept a loaded gun
beside her bed. “If I were really alone,”
she said at that time, “I’d be miserable.”
Therefore, many feel that this could hasten
any marriage plans. However, any decision
to re-marry is not an easy one. I imagine
that she’s battling a conflict with her own
self on the pros and cons of such a de-
cision. Or course, only she can come up
with the answers, and the questions are
numerous. Can she make a second marriage
work? Is Harry Karl the right man for
her? Has life without a partner, for more
than a year, made her too independent to
be able to adjust to another marriage?
Would she find marriage dull? And so on.

Above all, there is one thing Debbie
may fear if she becomes Mrs. Harry Karl
or Mrs. Anybody Else — the day one of
her children might say . . . “Mommy, will
I have to call that man Daddy?”

Both Todd and Carrie love to see “Uncle
Harry” when he comes to the house. In
Palm Springs, where Debbie owns a home,
which she and Eddie once shared as man
and wife, Karl spent a weekend just play-
ing with the children and showing them
the sites around town in his spotless lim-
ousine. Debbie was along, too.

The last year, has been hard on Debbie
in more ways than one. She tried to be
both a mother and father. At times, this
brought her close to emotional breakdown.
Carrie came down with tonsilitis. Even
though Debbie had 6 a.m. calls that week,
on “The Rat Race,” she took care of Carrie
for three nights in a row, getting hardly
any sleep at all. Carrie even slept beside
Debbie, so she could comfort her.

And then, at the end of March, little
Todd required an operation. It was a minor
operation, the doctors told Debbie, but
still, she felt she should notify Eddie.
Then she found that she had no idea
where to get in touch with him. When he
had been informed, finally, Eddie flew to
his son’s side at St. John’s hospital. But
the anxiety and fears at this time pointed
out dramatically how difficult it is for one
parent to try to be both mother and father.

In many ways, Debbie appears over-
protective. Mainly because she’s alone.
She takes no chances when it comes to
the children. Her stand-in, Donna Leary,

nearly scared Debbie to death. Donna’s
six-year-old son, one morning, decided
that he would smoke — just like Mommy.
While Donna was asleep, in the bedroom
of their apartment, the boy took a cig-
arette and lighter into the closet. Moments
later, flames were racing through the house.

Debbie was so upset about the near
tragedy, that she gave orders to her chil-
dren’s nurse not to leave them alone even
for one single minute during the day. All
the matches and lighters in the Reynolds
household were hidden.

Even when Eddie Fisher was permitted
to visit the children in Las Vegas, for a
weekend, Debbie was apprehensive. She
gave careful instructions to the nurse not
to let them out of her sight. One of her
girlfriends claimed that Debbie was nerv-
ous and on edge during all the time that
they were away. Debbie even canceled a
fun trip to Mexico, because she didn’t
want to go without the children and her
doctor advised her against taking them
South of the Border.

Everything but a husband

So, the one big thing missing in Debbie’s
life is a husband. And, up until recently,
that hadn’t seemed to bother her. She
once told a reporter: “Every woman would
like to have a happy marriage. The trick
is to have one. You have to be careful.
Particularly the second time.

“I’m free in every way. I have every-
thing— everything beyond what I ever
dreamed of years ago. I always wanted
to have children. I have my family. I have
a lovely house. I have a good job. I’m able
to buy almost anything I desire.”

But, now, things have changed. In
reality, Debbie probably knows she doesn’t
have everything, but may soon gain the
thing most lacking in her life — a husband.
Harry Karl is her number-one choice. And
he certainly has been persistent. Besides
the $40,000 worth of jewelry he gave her
for Christmas, some of his other gifts have
been a mink coat and a red electric golf
cart (they cost $1,900).

Another plus, is Karl’s position. He is
outside the entertainment business, so
there will be no question of competition
of their careers, an element that entered
into Debbie’s and Eddie’s problems. Yet,
Harry has been in and around show busi-
ness for years, so he understands a movie
star’s problems.

They made quite a hit at the recent
Thalians’ Mardi Gras costume ball for
new members. Debbie borrowed May Mur-
ray’s 35-year-old rhinestone dress from
the silent picture version of “The Merry
Widow,” out of the M-G-M wardrobe
department. Karl wore top hat and tails.
They made a grandstand entrance with
their faces made-up in blackface and
Pat Moran brought up the rear as their
slave in chains. One of the new members
was Bob Neal, but he never showed. It
seemed to confirm rumors that he was
completely out of Debbie’s life.

The man to watch is Harry Karl. His
divorce from Joan Cohn won’t be final
until October in California, but that
doesn’t mean he would have to wait that
long in order to re-marry. As in the case
of Eddie Fisher, Karl could obtain a di-
vorce in Nevada in six weeks time.

Close friends of Debbie, believe that if
she does say “yes” to Karl, the wedding
won’t take place until October, but the
big question in this writer’s mind is:

“Can Debbie convince herself that Karl
is the right man for her children to call
Daddy?” —ROBERT DEAN

SEE DEBBIE IN PAR’S. “THE RAT RACE” AND
“PLEASURE OF HIS COMPANY.” don’t MISS HER
SPECIALS ON ABC-TV. HEAR HER SING ON DOT.
BE SURE TO WATCH FOR HER IN COL. S "PEPE.”

COME CLOSER

Continued, from page 41

always, the studio reports: “You’re darned
right he’s expected. He’s in every scene.
Get him here!”

Meanwhile, daughter Tracy, aged 3, and
son Jody, aged 2, stare at Daddy under
the covers until Mommy returns and
routs him out of bed. Not until he is
bathed, shaved and reasonably drenched
in coffee does he remember any of his
wild morning deceptions. But once awak-
ened fully at 7:31, he is a live wire and
ready for work. Work is at Warner Broth-
ers studio.

Five mornings a week, at 7:45, with the
help of his wife, two children and the
neighborhood dogs, Roger Smith drives
through Warner Brothers’ studio gate,
parks his car, takes out his lunch pail
and reports to the set of “77 Sunset Strip,”
where he turns into detective Jeff Spencer.

Because he’s a chronic “forgetter” and
“a misplacer,” his wife has printed on his
lunch pail, “This kit belongs to Roger
Smith.” As a result, since last August, he
hasn’t lost a single pail, although people
from all over the set are constantly track-
ing him down with, “This your lunchbox,
Roger?”

His lunch from home is always the same.
The contents of the lunch pail correctly
calorie-counted are one sandwich, one
apple, one banana and one cookie. It is
his wife’s way of keeping him out of the
studio dining room, where, if he does go
on occasion, he invariably overeats, which
he doesn’t want to do.

He should, but he doesn’t watch his
diet. On the evenings they go out to din-
ner, Roger will invariably head for a
Mexican restaurant, stuff himself with
tamales and then go home to be sick.

“Why do you do it, Roger?” Vici would
question. “You know it always makes you
sick.”

But the very next week, there is Roger,
sick all over again, on tamales. And the
worst of it is, it goes on and on. He can’t
understand it himself.

On the set, if a problem comes up, he
simply falls asleep. He can sleep in his
chair for one or two hours while all
around him is clamor, din and confusion.
All his life, he’s retreated into sleep the
minute unpleasantness comes up. It saves
him, he claims, a lot of wear and tear on
the nerves. When free from work and
home fixing problems — like how to build
an addition on to the addition on to the
garage — he can and does sleep fourteen
to sixteen hours at a stretch. He’s that
easy and relaxed, although he can be lulled
into well-being with Vici’s words con-
cerning family arguments.

He doesn’t feel married

“Why quarrel?” she says. “We know
we’re not going to separate, so why make
ourselves miserable?”

He’s got himself one girl in a million
and he knows it. It’s fantastic, but for that
matter, so is his marriage. But there are
times, he confesses, he feels as if he were
living in — well, not sin exactly — but a
sort of premarital, romantic glow. He’s that
crazy about the wife who so wisely has re-
mained a sort of unfathomable enigma
to her husband.

“I don’t feel I know Vici,” he says. “I
don’t feel married, because I can’t out-
guess her. She keeps me guessing. I learn
new things about her every day. All the
other girls I dated, before Vici, I knew
like a book inside a few weeks. We’ve
been married four years now and I’m

still learning new things about my wife.”

Nevertheless, he can be a frustrating
husband at times. He’ll never dish-dry
and runs away from the vacuum-running.
And while he’ll uncomplainingly put up
with his wife’s cold feet, he has the nasty
habit of falling asleep right in the midst
of a good soul-satisfying argument — and
any wife knows nothing can be more
upsetting.

In the beginning, the Smiths were defi-
nitely disorganized — financially. With both
Roger and Vici progressing in their ca-
reers, they gave no thought for tomor-
row. If Roger decided he needed a new
power-saw, he’d buy one, regardless of
cost. Or, if they wanted new luggage for
the car, or maybe a new car, they got it.

They learned better, in time. Today,
they operate under a business manager
and, like most careful young couples, they
stick to their budget.

He’s romantic and quite a philosopher
on love. He believes a man should never
try to reason out a woman. “No man ever
knows why a woman says this or that,”
he insists. “Women reason on an emo-
tional basis rather than intellectual.”

Vici, quietly listening to this disserta-
tion, permits the remark to pass by with-
out comment.

“Men are attracted visually to women,”
he goes on, “but it’s the opposite with
women. Men are usually drawn to beauty
in the opposite sex. Women aren’t. Not
always. Men admire a voluptuous woman.
Most women are repelled by a man with
over-developed muscles that make him
seem a modern Goliath.

“Like any male animal, men are stimu-
lated by sounds and scents. They thrill to
the soft, musical voice of a woman. And
when she cunningly uses perfume, a man
thinks to himself — she’s trying to attract
me.”

“Is that why you never buy me any?”
Vici interrupts.

He ignores her. “Now take another
sound — music. Music is a woman’s weap-
on,” he continues. “When she plans to
attract a man, a woman turns on soft,
sweet music and a man, who sees through
her, thinks to himself — she’s trying to
please me.”

“Is that why you run from the house
every time I play a violin concerto re-
cording?” Vici innocently demands, hiding
her smile.

He eventually gives up.

He had trouble with women

No one can ever say that mild-man-
nered, gentlemanly Roger, would argue
with a lady! Although he insists, despite
his appealing six-feet-two-inches, blue-
green eyes and handsome young years
(he’s 27 now), that he has always had
trouble with women.

In fact, at the time he met Vici, he was
having girl problems all over the place.
One girl, in particular, had stood him up
and Roger was burning. “Why don’t you
ask Vici Shaw for a date just to get
even?” a friend suggested. Roger had
seen her. A green-eyed beauty with an
upturned nose, who came from Australia.
To Roger, who’d been impressed with her
performance in “The Eddie Duchin Story,”
the suggestion was comparable to asking
out Garbo.

But, finally, he screwed up his courage,
took her to Disneyland (“It cost me $42,”
he moans), and what happened? She
trapped him.

At no time did he ask Vici to marry
him. She asked him. Twice, too, before she
got him. The first time that she happened
to say, “When we get married,” Roger said,
“Now, hold on there. We’re not getting
married.” The second time Vici brought up

the subject, he came back with a snappy,
“Now, just a minute.”

This didn’t bother Vici in the least.
Whether lovable old “Roge” acknowledged
it or not, she knew they loved each other,
had been in love for weeks and they were
getting married.

“My reluctance was due to the fact I
had no money saved and was making
little,” he admits. “But, frankly, I was
crazy about the idea.”

The things that happened at their wed-
ding reception should have tipped off Roger
to his life ahead.

Their crises go all the way back to the
wedding. Without a hitch they got through
the ceremony, but disaster struck at the
reception at a friend’s home. They were
all but ready to depart for their honey-
moon when Vici, changing her gown up-
stairs, made a discovery.

She had forgotten her strapless bra.
She’d packed them all and the luggage
was outside in the car. And, very clearly,
she made it understood that under no cir-
cumstances was she going anywhere with
anybody minus it.

A woman friend was dispatched to fetch
one from the luggage. But along the way,
the friend stopped to chat with first one
group and then another, and the time
dragged on while Vici grew more and more
restless.

“Have a glass of champagne while you’re
waiting,” a friend urged, but Vici, who
seldom drinks, shook her head.

“Well, a little,” the friend urged again,
“you’re getting nervous.”

So Vici sipped some champagne. The
friend returned; Vici had finished dress-
ing in her going-away outfit and then
proceeded to descend the stars, when, with
a sudden whoop, she decided to toss the
bouquet — and tossed it backwards, knock-
ing off the hat and eyeglasses of the
startled usher.

The bouquet was retrieved and retossed
by the blushing bride in the right direction,
although slightly off center, and the Smiths
drove off to their tiny apartment with its
one chair, one bed, one stove and to, what
Roger calls today, “perpetual crises.”

His silly superstitions

Is he superstitious about all this? He
says no, he’s given up superstitions, since
he feels he can no longer cope with the
consequences.

He used to be superstitious. In fact, when
he played football for Hollywood School in
Nogales, New Mexico, he drove everyone
crazy on the team. Not that he wasn’t a
good athlete and a top player. He was, but
somewhere he picked up this irrepressible
habit: Before making a pass, for luck, he’d
turn the ball over twice in his hands. The
team nearly went crazy waiting for him.

And when he played baseball, he simply
had to touch first base before going into
action. Let the umpire scream and the
pitcher howl, old Roge would have to
touch the base first.

“It was all,” he shakes his head and smiles
a sheepish grin, “just one of those silly
superstitions I’d been seized with and
could do nothing about.” But it’s all part of
the past — his superstitions — he explains
seriously, today, while knocking on the
wood of his guitar for luck!

It was his guitar that brought him all
his good fortune. He took it up at the
University of Arizona and strummed and
sang so well, that he won first place on
“The Horace Heidt Show” and the “Ted
Mack Original Amateur Hour.” His guitar
brought him good luck in Hawaii when, as
a member of the Naval R.O.T.C., he gave
performances in little clubs when he was
on leave — along with another lad named
Bob Shayne, now with the Kingston Trio.

“Look,” a man approached him and said,
one evening, after his performance, “I don’t
often say this, but with your looks and
talent, kid, you should try Hollywood.”

The man was Jimmy Cagney and, three
months after his discharge, Roger followed
his advice about Hollywood.

Vici has the answer

But he’s never played the guitar in a
film, although he estimates that he, along
with Efrem Zimbalist, average about 30
full-length movies a year — a tough work-
ing schedule.

“Once he gets out of bed,” laughs Vici,
“he’s a hard worker.”

Which is true. He seldom works for less
than ten to twelve hours daily, and after
that, and on weekends, he finds he can
never turn down a request from a fan or
for a public appearance.

He can’t say no. He knows how he’d
have felt, as a kid growing up in South-
gate, California, if one of his movie idols
had given him an autograph or made a
visit to his town. And so he feels deeply
about his fans.

He feels deeply about intolerance, too.
“Racial intolerance,” he says, “is instinc-
tively planted in the minds of children
even before birth.” And, undoubtedly, he
is recalling prejudice he found when he
moved, at twelve years of age, to Nogales,
New Mexico, and found himself the only
“blond-haired” kid in the school.

“Intolerance,” he’ll explain seriously,
losing, for a rare moment, his easygoing
manner, “is passed along through genera-
tion to generation and can only be elimi-
nated when people cease passing such
ideas mentally to each new generation.”

And Vici will say, at this point: “What
you and I need, Roger, is more children.

I keep saying it over and over.”

And she means it. She wants no part of
the actress-star bit. It’s a bore. She wants
only to be Mr. Smith’s wife. She wants
only the demands of her spouse, as he sud-
denly shouts downstairs, “I haven’t any
clean shirts” — “Well, why in heaven’s name
do you hang up your soiled shirts among
the clean ones? Who knows they’re there?”
she shouts back.

And he’ll smile as she goes looking for
a clean one for him and show her, later
that day when he returns from work,
that he appreciates her, by having her
favorite snapshot, the one he took of her
and the kids, enlarged as a surprise.

And he won’t stop off, that evening, at
the hardware store and get lost among the
household repair gadgets, but drive direct-
ly home to their nice-middle-class neigh-
borhood. And, after parking the car in
the garage, he may stop to admire and in-
spect his own landscaping around their
house, then dash inside, calling, “Vici?”

And she’ll come running down the steps
to meet him and he’ll say, “No bitters in
the meatloaf, tonight?” And she’ll shake
her head. No.

“No ice cakes with sour cream?” he’ll
tease. And she’ll shake her head, No. And
then he shuts the door and softly whispers,
“I love you, Vici,” and she murmurs back,
“I love you, too, Roger.”

And then, Roger Smith knows he has it
made — until, that is, 7:15 the next morn-
ing, when Vici nudges him, “Do you have
to go to work early today, Roger?” And
then, for some reason, unknown even to
himself, he finds himself carrying on and
deceiving his wife and confusing his chil-
dren as he hears himself answer back:
“No, not today, Vici.” The End

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NATALIE TRUNDY

Continued from page 67

and her mom who’d been the one who in-
sisted Natalie give up show business for at
least two years to spend a couple of “nor-
mal” years in college and to make her so-
cial debut, before resuming a movie career.

And he’d discovered little crazy things
about her: she’d gotten that first part of
a 16-year-old girl, when she was only
13, by forcing her feet into high heels,
padding herself in the proper places, put-
ting on a form-fitting dress and convinc-
ing the producer she co”ld play the role;
she liked the bubbly fee'ing of champagne
but couldn’t stand hard liquor; she loved
ice cream and spaghetti and hamburgers
and loathed cottage cheese; she’d practiced
the piano for three years and hated it; she
had seventy-nine pairs of shoes and $300
worth of gloves; and she had a little more
than 10,024 freckles on her face.

This last thing he was pretty sure of.
After all, he’d spent hours, one after-
noon, counting them, seriously and with a
straight face. When Natalie had finally
stifled her giggles, for a moment, to de-
clare she was starved and refused to sit
still another minute and be “counted,”
he solemnly announced that he had fin-
ished anyhow. A smart businessman like
himself didn’t have to count every freckle.
One-fourth of her face, 2,506 freckles, was
sufficient, he declared; now all he had to
do was multiply by four.

A lot of freckles, but not really very
much — this and everything else he’d
learned — to know about the girl you want
to be your wife. But Charles was hope-
lessly in love. That was enough for him.

And when Natalie replied, “Yes,
Charlie, I’ll marry you,” she knew even
less about him than he did about her.
Most of the time, she talked and he lis-
tened. That was one thing she was sure
of: he was a good listener. And soft-
voiced. And gentle. And when he looked
at her in that special way, she felt she
was the most beautiful girl in the world.

But “love” — about that, Natalie wasn’t
sure. Excitement, yes, especially when
her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Frances Cam-
pana, opposed the marriage (not because
Charles was of a different religion, as some
of the columnists claimed, but because her
father and mother knew how set she was
on a career and also because she was too
young) ; but “love” — perhaps. When her
parents finally gave in and gave them their
blessings and officially announced the en-
gagement to the press, Natalie was even
less sure of love than before.

Two weeks before she married Charles
Hirshon, Natalie confided to a close friend
that she didn’t love him, and claimed that
“Charlie’s imagination always gets the bet-
ter of him.” That same day she broke the
engagement, and the fact was duly re-
ported in the New York papers.

The next morning, Charlie and Natalie
were seen walking hand-in-hand along
Fifth Avenue. The engagement was “on”
again. Two weeks later, the young couple
eloped to Baltimore, Maryland, and were
married by Pastor Hans Wagner at Zion
Lutheran Church. The ring was a simple,
plain gold band. But Charlie’s wedding
gift to his bride was far from simple: a
yacht “between 80 and 100 feet long” (the
groom was so excited he couldn’t remem-
ber the craft’s dimensions, when ques-
tioned by reporters after the ceremony)
and a white Alfa Romeo automobile with
p red upholstery. The bride said she was
“very happy.”

Charles wanted to take his bride to
Paris and then home to Tahiti. But Na-

talie’s TV commitments, in New York,
forced them both to stay there for over
a month. Natalie was intent on carving
out a career for herself in Hollywood. “I
want to be a great actress,” she told an in-
terviewer— while Charles begged her to
forget about making a name for herself in
pictures. Her mother had warned her
to try for a career, wait till she knew
more of the world, but it didn’t seem
necessary then.

Charles owned almost half of the island
of Tahiti, but the money was tied up in
a trust fund by his father and he received
only one check a month — and not a very
large one at that. Not that they starved.
On their anniversary, Charlie gave her a
wedding band every month, but she wore
neither the original ring nor any of the
others.

They began to pick at each other, and
then one or the other would sulk for
hours. They were such strangers that
they didn’t even know how to fight, to get
what was bothering them out in the open,
to clear the air. They were young . . .
very young.

Then, Natalie, whose career had been
at low tide — got the break she’d waited for,
a call from Hollywood for a featured role
in the “Adventures in Paradise” TV
series. Charlie couldn’t get away from
New York, on such short notice, so Natalie
went out to the Coast by plane, alone.

At Idle wild airport, in New York, she
met Vic Damone and his parents, Mr. and
Mrs. Rocco Farinola of Brooklyn, who
were all on the way to California. Natalie
knew Vic casually, but her mother and
his parents were old friends. On the plane,
Vic invited her to be a guest at his house
as long as his parents were there, or until
her husband came out, and gratefully she
accepted.

Marriage isn’t all sweet music

A week later, when Charlie was able
to break away from his business in New
York, he flew out to Hollywood, and he
and Natalie rented a modest apartment.

Marriage, the young Hirshons learned,
wasn’t champagne and soft lights and
sweet music. It was bills, and disagree-
ments, and washing dishes after supper.
It was squabbling and quarreling over lit-
tle things and big things — over whether
or not Natalie should continue her career,
over who should put the garbage in the
incinerator.

Then, one night, came the biggest fight
of all. Neither of them knew just what
started it, but this time they didn’t just
pick at each other in controlled voices;
this time they screamed at each other, and
having had no experience in screaming, of

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really letting off steam, they were both
shattered by the experience.

“Well, Natalie,” Charlie said, after they’d
both pulled themselves together, “we’re
both very unhappy. Don’t you think we
ought to separate for a while?”

Natalie agreed, and the next day Charlie
packed a few of his things in a bag and
moved into the relatively inexpensive
Montecito Hotel at 6650 Franklin Avenue.
As he was leaving, he said, “I’ll have the
telephone turned over to you tomorrow.”

Exactly what happened in the next day
or so, is a little confusing (it depends on
whom you talk to, Natalie or Charlie), but
she claims that she returned home from
work and she found her phone was dead.

The following day she called her hus-
band and asked, “Charles, why?” And, ac-
cording to Natalie, he told her the phone
was in his name. “Now it’s your business,”
he is alleged to have said. “If you want an-
other, get it.”

Natalie also claims that a few days later,
when he came by to pick up his mail,
she asked him, “Charles, shall I buy my-
self a car?” He had bought her a new car,
a Dual-Ghia, but he hadn’t given it to
her.

According to Natalie, Charles answered,
"I'm not going to give it to you. But,
I’ll tell you what. I’ll sell it to you.”

Some observers say that Charles was in-
creasingly jealous of Natalie, not only of
her career but also of the men she’d
meet — men like Jeff Richards, with whom
she played a love scene in a bathing suit in
“Adventures in Paradise”; even men like
his own best friend, Gustavo Rojo, who
was dark, suave and handsome. Whether
this was true or not, it was apparent to
everyone who knew him, that Charles
was extremely depressed by the break-up.

One last call

A little more than two weeks after
Charles Hirshon walked out on his wife,
he picked up the telephone in his hotel-
apartment and made two calls, one to his
friend Gustavo Rojo, of Beverly Hills,
the other to New York City. Just before
he put through the call to New York, he
told the switchboard operator, Miss Eva
Shalle, that he wanted the telephone
service disconnected after he made “one
last call.” Something in the tone of his
voice alarmed the operator, and she told
her fears to Walter Smith, the hotel man-
ager. He told her to listen in on the New
York call, and she heard Charles Hirshon
say that he’d taken an overdose of se-
conal tablets. The manager immediately
called the police.

The police broke into his apartment and
found him unconscious. In his hands, he
was clutching a photograph of his wife,
Natalie. There were two notes; one say-
ing that his five-month-old marriage was
breaking up; the other, addressed to Gus-
tavo Rojo, which read: “Please don’t let
them take me to a hospital ward. You
know that I am sane. I just got so weak
that I gave in. Your best friend, Charlie.
P.S. Please just put me in bed, floor or
on a couch at your house.”

Charles Hirshon was rushed to the Hol-
lywood Receiving Hospital where he was
given emergency treatment. It was dis-
covered that he had taken twenty-five
seconal tablets. Later, still unconscious,
he was transferred to Beth Israel Hospital.

Ironically, Natalie’s phone still wasn’t
working the night Charles tried to com-
mit suicide. She learned of the situation
when she received a telegram from Gus-
tavo Rojo.

New York gossip columnists speculated
as to whom Charles had called in New
York, just before he lost consciousness,
and most agreed that it was Wendy Van-

derbilt, whom he had dated, occasionally,
before he married Natalie. M;ss Vander-
f bilt denies he called her. And Charles
vaguely remembers placing a call to New
York, but doesn’t recall to whom. “I felt
completely alone,” he says. “I hadn’t been
able to sleep. I had to talk to someone.”

Investigation narrowed Hirshon’s phone
call down to three possible people: Miss
Vanderbilt; Natalie’s mother, Mrs. Frances
Campana; and his sister, Joan Hirshon.
One of Charles’ close friends insists the
call was made to his sister, who flew out
to be with her brother the next day.

They blamed Natalie

Shortly after the near-tragedy, front
page stories, throughout the United States,
reported that the cause of Charles Hirsh-
on’s suicide attempt was his wife’s in-
fatuation for singer Vic Damone. Vic
immediately declared, from location on
Okinawa: “There’s nothing to it. Ridicu-
lous. I just tried to be nice to the girl. She
stayed at my home for about six days
and then moved out when her husband
came. No, I don’t have any feeling for
the girl. She’s not my type. I got burned
once by an actress. I make it a point not
to date them. I never took Natalie out.”

A less serious, but nevertheless irritat-
ing charge, was also levelled against
Natalie by the press, when she was ac-
cused of not even bothering to visit or call
her husband during the four days he was
in the hospital, until just before he checked
out. During the first couple of days when
he was slowly returning to consciousness,
his only visitors, the newspapers said,
were his sister Joan and his cousin, Mari-
anne Benson, and her husband Ray.

Natalie finally told reporters her side
of the story: “After all,” she said, “if
you’re going to commit suicide, you don’t
call up Wendy Vanderbilt in Manhattan.
. . . She’s a friend of his. She’s twenty.”

Then she switched to the charge made
against her that she hadn’t attempted to
contact her husband in the hospital. “I
called and asked, ‘Charles, how are you?’
He said, ‘No comment.’ That’s exactly
what he said. Then he asked did he have
any mail. I said two letters. He said
drop them by the hospital tomorrow be-
tween ten and eleven. It’s the only time
I have free to see you.

“The next day Charles appeared at the
apartment. He had his cousin, Mrs. Ray
Benson, with him. I said, ‘Charles, how
are you?’ He said, ‘No comment.’ Then
he said he wasn’t allowed to talk to me.”

Less than ten days after her hus-
band tried to take his own life, Natalie
Trundy Hirshon announced that she was
seeing her lawyer and would get a divorce.
She surmised that her husband had al-
ready seen his.

For his part, Charles Hirshon moved in
with his cousin and her husband after
checking out of the hospital. He talks of
going to Tahiti for an indefinite period to
“forget about Natalie and the whole epi-
sode.” He also asserts that “she won’t
get a cent” of his family’s estate.

Less than one year after Natalie Trundy
and Charles Hirshon hurried into mar-
riage, against her parents’ advice, they
are split so wide apart that only a miracle
can reunite them. The soft-voiced boy
who’d asked at the dance, “May I cut
in?” and the freckle-faced girl who’d
whispered to herself, “Charlie, Charlie,
Charlie, Charlie” are together no more.

One can’t help wonder — how much
tragedy might have been avoided — if they
had given love some time to be tested and
given their young years some time to be
matured before rushing to marry. The End

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CASTLES IN THE
SAND

Continued from page 65

in the sun, waiting for a fish to bite.”

“Evy?” Dorothy asked. She’d been let-
ting the sand trickle through her fingers
into a little mound and now she began to
pat it into shape, though Troy couldn’t
tell yet what it was going to be. He won-
dered, from the way she asked that ques-
tion, if maybe she was jealous. He’d seen
Dorothy in the Warner Brothers’ com-
missary, lots of times, and finally he
meandered over and introduced himself.
Now, this was the fourth time they’d been
to the beach together.

Troy laughed at her question and ex-
plained, “Evy’s my kid sister. We used to
sit on the docks, with nobody else around,
and it seemed as though our thoughts
could be heard for miles around . . . Evy
was like my sounding board. She was only
six, at the time, but she was very bright. I
could talk to her about almost anything.
I still can. Sometimes she thought I was
crazy when I told her I wanted to be an
actor. She liked the idea of wearing a
uniform and hoped, just like my mom
did, that I’d go to West Point. But, at times,
she could get excited over my living in
Hollywood and her coming out to visit me
when I would be working with people
like Marilyn Monroe and John Wayne.”

Always in trouble

“I have a kid sister, too,” Dorothy said.
“Did I ever tell you about her?” Troy’s
talk about his sister had started her re-
membering things she almost thought
she’d forgotten. “Patti was the aggressive
one. I always liked what she did, because
she had the nerve to do anything. Me? I
was afraid someone would come and bite
me if I opened my mouth.

“I followed Patti — no matter what she’d
suggest. My poor Mom. She even had to
call the cops one day. Patti and I had dis-
appeared. She searched high and low for
us, but we weren’t to be found. We’d made
some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,
stolen a box of Granny’s peanut brittle
cookies and hid in our tree house waiting
for the stars to fall down to earth. You see,
I had this theory that after the night was
over, the stars lined up, one by one, and
found their way to earth to sleep. So, Pat-
ti and I were going to find out if it were
true. The top of our tree house slid back
and we could see the whole sky covered
with little lights. I don’t think either one
of us blinked an eyelash, all night, wait-
ing for the stars to descend. But, some-
how, we didn’t see my theory come true.
We must have fallen off to sleep — and
that was that! The police found us, sleep-
ing soundly, around five in the morning.
My mother didn’t even yell at us. She
knew it was no use.

“For two days, life would run smoothly.
Patti and I would go to school in Seattle,
but, by the third day, we were restless and
off on another project. I would usually
bring home the stray little kids who wan-
dered in from nowhere and feed them my
grandmother’s cookies. . . . People always
intrigued me. I don’t know why but
you know, even today I have the strangest
group of friends.”

“I always like being by myself whenever
I could,” Troy admitted. “Even though I
p played football in school and participated
in school functions and was always sur-
rounded by kids.

“Can you believe it, people used to

tell me their problems. It’s funny, I got
tagged a ‘PLP’ ”

“What’s a ‘PLP?’ ” Dorothy asked.

“You oughta know that,” Troy said
“You’re a Phi Beta Kappa. . . . It’s Pub-
lic Leaning Post!” Troy answered. “It
seems, something you have inside, just
draws people with problems to you. Some
kids, I’m sure, never realized I had my
own headaches. You know, when my dad
died, I was only fourteen and the head of
our household. It was hard for a while.
I used to go and sit by myself. Funny, I
liked being alone. It gave me a chance to
to think and read. You know, I’d like to
write short stories some day.”

“Hey, me too,” Dorothy said. “When
Patti was out cavorting by herself, I liked
to stay home reading. My mother thought
I’d be cross-eyed one day. . . Hah! I don’t
even wear glasses!” she laughed.

The sun seemed to be directly overhead.
Dorothy removed her straw hat. “Whew!
It’s hot,” she said. “It feels good.”

Troy turned over on his back. “Let’s
go swimming and cool off?” he suggested.

“I’d rather not,” Dorothy answered,
drawing back a little.

“Ah, c’mon. It’s so warm. We’ll cool
off,” he said. A gleam of apprehension
shone in Dorothy’s eyes. “What’s the
matter?” Troy teased softly. “Afraid?”

“Heck1 It’s just . . . ju”

“Just what?” Troy asked, concerned.

“Well, it’s just that every time I see
water . . . can you believe it, I can’t
forget the time Patti and I almost
drowned!”

“You’re kidding,” Troy laughed.

“No. I’m not! Honest. Patti and 1
always liked to prove who was better than
the other. I told her I could swim better
than Florence Chadwick. She said she
could — so we set out to prove it. I was
nine at the time. Patti was only eight.
We swam three miles out in Haller Lake,
and we were somewhere out in a never
never land when Patti got tired and
started dropping under. I was so ex-
hausted, I could hardly keep myself
above water, too. Somehow, I managed
to hold Patti up and, for about two
miles I did a crawl — and I mean crawl-
back to land. I really thought we were
going to drown.”

“Don’t worry,” Troy said, “I can take
care of you. I was on the swimming team
at the New York Military Academy—
really. I’ll protect you if you go under!”

“How gallant, Mr. Donahue,” Dorothy
laughed and, with that, Troy picked her
up and running toward the water, he
threw her in.

Several minutes later, they plopped
back on their blanket, still laughing.
Dorothy’s hair was wet and straggly. She
took out her brush and some pins and
began fixing her hair.

“Sometimes I want to cut all my hair
off and let it fly wildly and not worry if
every hair is in place!” she laughed.

“Then why don’t you?” Troy queried.

He was Juliet!

“Guess, because I’m sentimental. I’ve
always had long hair. Then it’s an advan-
tage when I have to play different parts
too.” And she turned and laughed gaily.
“You know, one day, when I was a kid and
we were putting on shows in the neighbor-
hood, I needed a mustache, so I cut
off a piece of my pony tail. It always
came in handy.”

“I did my first school play at the Acad-
emy,” Troy joined in. “It was an all boys
school, so the guys had to play girl’s parts.
I almost cracked up when six foot three
inch me had to play Juliet!”

They both laughed hysterically. The
mound Dorothy had started to build, ear-

lier, had taken shape now, and Troy
reached over to help smooth the sand to
castle. “Funny thing, though,” Troy con- st
tinued. “It was while doing a couple of
these plays that I decided I wanted to act
and after I injured my knee and couldn’t if
go on with a professional military career,

I thought, ‘Why not! Acting can’t be that ,
tough!’ ” | si

“Well, I always knew that I’d be an J
actress some day,” Dorothy interrupted.

“My mom used to be a radio personality, I c
but when she married, she gave it up. I j
always loved to sing and dance around the t
house and, after school, Patti and I would a
dress up in Mom’s clothes and put on f
shows for just each other. Patti’s married
now but my youngest sister Suzie, who’s
thirteen, says she wants to be an actress, too.

“Besides, I felt like a million different
people when I was on stage. I was no
longer shy Dorothy Provine, who died a
million deaths when she had to be with a
lot of people. I was somebody else. It was
a great escape.

“Then when I went to high school, and
after school, I did some modeling. I
started out by doing commercials on our
local TV station. That’s when I really
knew I wanted to act. I remember getting
paid for my first commercial. It was for
Almond Roca candies. They sent us a
whole year’s supply. Boy, was I glad. I
hated to eat meals, but did I love sneak-
ing a candy bar or cookies. I still do.”

Dorothy sat upright, putting the straw
hat back on her head. “Can’t sit in the sun
too long with my hair uncovered. The
sun changes the color.”

Troy rolled over again, ran his hand
through her hair and lay his head on
Dorothy’s lap and they tried to sleep.
Then, suddenly, Troy said, “Boy, did I
have a rough time getting started. Did
you?” he asked.

“No. I was lucky. When I graduated from
the University of Washington, I left im-
mediately for Hollywood. The first day
I was here I got an apartment. And — ”

“Did you have any money?” Troy again
interrupted.

“Oh, I’d saved a few hundred dollars
from my modeling, commercials and act-
ing jobs — enough, anyway, to last about
six months or so. But, on my second day,

I got myself an agent who sent me out
on an interview for a television show. Be-
fore I knew it, I was standing before
a camera. Guess I was really lucky. I’ve
been working steadily ever since — except,
of course, when I’m home recouping from
one of my accident prone days. You know,
as a kid, I couldn’t climb a tree without
falling out of it. And even today, some-
how doors manage to fall in on me or
a boom hits me on the head. Things like
that keep happening to me,” she laughed.

“Wish it had been that easy for me!” he
sighed. “For a couple of years, I walked
New York’s pavements till my soles’ soles
were worn out! But it was the same old
story. Everyone wanted someone with
experience. . . . Need I say more?” Dorothy
shook her head to show she understood.
Troy continued. “Finally, a friend of
my dad’s offered me a job with a film
company, and I jumped at it. Left New
York and headed for California. Knocked
around for another year or so there, but
couldn’t even get arrested. Wow! What
luck I had. And then, when things finally
looked good and I got this offer to do a
screen test for Columbia Pictures, I got
into a car accident and wound up on an
operating table instead of on the set!”

“Were you in love?”

A long, low whistle interrupted his
trend of thought. Dorothy, immediately,
looked up from under her hat. A hand-

some young, bronze-skinned man was
staring at her. She turned as red as a beet!

“I hate when men do that!”

“Ah, c’mon. You know every girl loves
it!” Troy chided.

“Oh no they don’t! And, besides, I’m not
like every girl. Sometimes I think I’m
still afraid of men. I didn’t even start
dating till I was seventeen. I just couldn’t
get along with boys. I always had secret
crushes, but I never did anything about
it. When my girlfriends would ask me
to double or triple date with them, I’d
always accept. It seemed to be more
fun going out in a group, than being by
yourself. The boys I went out with, never
seemed to understand. They didn’t know
why I wanted a career. They thought a
girl’s place was in the home . . . There
seemed to be nothing to talk about. I
guess that’s why I stayed by myself so
much.”

“Were you ever in love, Dorothy?” Troy
asked, interested.

“Oh, there were boys here and there,
but no one serious. I was kind of skinny
and straggly-looking when I was a kid in
high school. My mother didn’t think make-
up was good for the skin, so I couldn’t use
it. Most of my friends did and looked
very attractive. Guess boys didn’t find
me too exciting. . . . Were you ever in
love, Troy?” she asked suddenly.

“Who ever knows when love really hits
you? I’ve always found I needed a girl
to help me. When I was young, it was
my mother. Then it was my kid sister
Evy. There was a girl in high school and,
when I came to California, there was
Judi Meredith. Gee, she was lots of fun.
I’ve sort of gone steady lots of times. I
even asked Nan Morris to marry me.
We’re kind of still seeing each other, but
somehow I just can’t make the marriage (
scene . . . Sometimes I wish I were a i
farmer in a midwestern state. I’d prob-
ably get married tomorrow, and raise a
half dozen kids. But, getting married
before I’ve made it, well ... I don’t know,
Dorothy, it’s kind of scary. I’m really
confused. Guess that’s why I come out to
the beach. I feel all alone and so peace-
ful here. It’s the only place where I can
come and think clearly.”

Let’s do it again

“Me, too,” Dorothy added. “It’s kind
of like being on your own private island,
with you as master and creator of what-
ever you want.” She paused for a long
moment. “But, you know something,
Troy?” she said looking up at the sky, still
wondering if perhaps there was any truth
to her childhood theory about where the
stars went. “When I come out to the
beach, because I want to be alone, I love
thinking about the future, wondering
what’s it going to be like, building castles
in the sand.”

Troy picked his head up from her
lap. The waves were getting higher and
higher and the tide was moving closer to
where they lay.

“Build enough today?” he asked.

Dorothy laughed. She stretched lazily
to reach over to her beach bag and fish
around in it for her watch. “Gosh, it’s
five o’clock,” she exclaimed. She smoothed
the sand castle with her toes. “We don’t
want anyone else moving into it,” she
laughed. She stood up and brushed off
the sand. “I didn’t realize I’d been talk-
ing for so long.”

“Guess that’s a woman’s prerogative,”
Troy teased. “It’s been great fun though
— honest. Let’s do it again.” The End

SEE TROY IN WARNERS’ “THE CROWDED SKY.”
DOROTHY CAN BE SEEN SUNDAYS, ON ABC-TV
IN “the ALASKANS,” 9:30-10:30 p.m. edt.

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ANNETTE AND PAUL

Continued from page 63

of surprises. But this time I knew exactly
what he had in mind and the two of us
giggled so loud we had to be shushed.

I forget the name of the town we were
in. Our tour with Dick had gone on for
two months and one city sort of melted
into another. But anyway, we started out
on our errand together, still laughing.

Ever shop for a snake? A snappy rubber
one that has plenty of bounce? It’s not
easy, as we found out, but finally we found
one in a novelty store that was just right.

All through the evening show, I kept
thinking of that rubber snake and almost
laughed out loud during my song. And
later that evening on the train, as I peeped
through the curtains of my berth, I saw
Paul tiptoe down the aisle and carefully
slip our purchase near the feet of my sub-
stitute tutor, who’d been pretty strict.

Suddenly she leaped from her berth with
a yell like a Comanche on the warpath
and went tearing down the train aisle
screaming her head off. My mother, who
was in the berth next to mine, thought
Jesse James had come back for another
holdup.

I just lay there and laughed, stuffing the
sheet in my mouth so no one could hear.

And then, as the train wheels ground
out their noisy offbeat rhythm and the
lights of passing towns flashed through my
window I stopped laughing. I had realized
something I hadn’t thought about before —
men can be little boys all their lives.

A boy can be moody, and strange and
complicated. Paul is. I never know what
to expect or what mood he’ll be in when
I see him. Or when he telephones. And
even though I’ve learned to adjust to his
moods, I admit it takes a lot of under-
standing.

Doubts and troubled waters

He’ll telephone me from New York and
we’ll talk and talk, as happy as can be.

A few evenings later, when he tele-
phones, I’ll say — and mean it with all my
heart — "I miss you, Paul.”

“I’ll bet you do,” he’ll come back, and
suddenly we’re back in our old routine
of doubts and troubled waters again. Or
maybe he’ll call and say, “Okay. Who have
you got there now?” And I try so hard not
to be hurt. For the truth is, when Paul is
wonderful he makes up for all the bad
times. And he’s wonderful a lot of the time.
Odd, I admit it, but wonderful, too.

Paul calls me long-distance at least twice
a week and we talk for a couple of hours.
His phone bills must be terrific! We talk
about our day, what’s happened to us, how
we miss each other. He has usually written
another song and he sings it to me over the
phone. He asks my opinion and I always
tell him the truth. Even if I don’t like it
too much. I’ll tell him, “Paul, you’ve writ-
ten better things than that.” Some numbers
that I haven’t liked he’s never released.
I kind of hope it’s because of me. I loved
the numbers that made it — even before
they did.

I look forward to his calls but I never
cali him. Even when I go to New York
and he’s in New Jersey, I don’t call him.
He knows when I’m going to New York
and he finds out where I’m staying. Maybe
I’m old-fashioned but I don’t think girls
should phone boys — unless it’s to invite
them to a party or something like that,
p Through Paul I’ve learned love can be
a happy thing and terribly sad thing, too.
Sometimes we’ll sit and talk seriously for
hours and sometimes he’ll pour out his

heart to me and I’ll understand and be
happy. Other times, he’ll listen quietly to
me as I talk. Yet sometimes he’s moody
and doesn’t want to talk at all. And then
I try not to feel hurt.

“Annette,” he said to me one day, “I
know you through and through. I know
how you think and what you’re like deep
inside.”

He doesn’t. I don’t believe any boy knows
what a girl is really like. And I learned
this one day when he returned from New
York and asked me what I’d been doing
and who I’d been out with and where I’d
gone.

I told him that mostly I’d been to the
studio for interviews or gone to the movies
with my best friend, Shelly Fabares, who
is on “The Donna Reed Show.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my
dates?” he asked me.

“No, Paul. We have our friendship and
our happiness in being wonderful friends.
Other things don’t matter,” I told him.

It didn’t make him happy at all. But the
very next day he drove out to the house in
wild excitement. He’d brought along two
water pistols. For two hours we squirted
each other. We were absolutely drenched,
but we’d had a wonderful time. I know
my mother thought we were both crazy
and my eight-year-old brother Mike seem-
ed surprised at two grown-up people be-
having like kids.

But somehow, it eased all the hurts and
doubts that comes from Paul’s insecure
feeling for me. And mine, too, in a way,
for Paul can needlessly make himself un-
happy. When he’s unhappy, I am too.

I’ve talked a lot about this with my
mother. Some nights I crawl into her bed
and we talk about Paul for hours.

A little-boy-lost

I’ve come to think that his problem is
lack of assurance — or a kind of insecurity.
And I don’t know why. It isn’t that he
hasn’t had appreciation and affection at
home. His family is thrilled at his success.
Of course, he had to make it on his own,
but so have most of us.

Sometimes I think Paul became a success
too young in life. Did you know, he was
only fourteen when his song “Diana” made
him famous? Since then he’s been almost
around the world on concert tours, singing
the songs he wrote.

I remember one young actor talking
about Paul’s aggressiveness in undertaking
this tour. He seemed to envy Paul his con-
fidence. I didn’t say anything, but I was
thinking of Paul’s telephone call from
Rome a few days before. “Annette, I don’t
think I can finish this tour,” he had said.
And he seemed so weary and so much like
a little -boy -lost that I could have wept.
And they say Paul Anka is forward.

I’ve learned some men, even more than
women, need constant assurance. Espe-
cially about how his girl feels toward him.
I’m not ashamed to say that I keep telling
Paul how very much I care for him. I write
him twice every week when we’re apart
and, knowing how he honestly cares for
me, I return his deep affection with honest
sincerity.

I would no more think of playing a cat-
and-mouse game with a boy like Paul than
flying. It could destroy him, I know.

Yet sometimes his defenses are up even
with me. One day he called me from New
York with news. And I could tell from his
voice he wondered how I’d react.

“Annette,” he said, and he spoke almost
hesitatingly, “I’ve had my nose changed.”

“Oh wonderful,” I said, and I was really
happy for him.

“I’m glad, Paul. I think I’ll have mine
done, too, so I can be beautiful for you.”

And then it came. That sudden mood

that can hurt so deeply. “You mean so you
can look like a big movie star and be
married four times before you’re twenty-
one,” he snapped. I think he knew how I
felt at that moment, because he added soft-
ly, “I didn’t mean to hurt you or make
you cry.”

What can you do with a boy like that
except try to understand and remember
only the wonderful, truly wonderful, things
about him?

The way he tucks my kid brother into
bed at night and spends an hour or two
reading him stories.

The pleasure he gets in showering me
with presents. A small gold heart with a
cultured pearl in the center, which I wear
on a chain around my neck. The stuffed
animals from every country he’s visited on
tours. The bulky sweater he wore one
evening and later sent me because I had
admired it. The compact from India and
the West Indian beads which shows he
really thinks about me wherever he goes.
The times he visited me during my school
hours on the Clark tour, when he knew
how miserable I was with the way things
were. And he’d sit there just to lend me
moral support.

The times we’d slip up to the ballroom of
whatever hotel we were in and, together
at the piano, we’d work out a song.

With Paul at the keyboard, he’d say
“Think of the words, Annette. Say what
comes to your mind. I’ll fit the music to
it.” Together we worked out the song
“Teddy” that way. And I think how care-
fully he wrote every song for me in my
new album “Annette Sings Anka.”

How can you forget these things? Or the
way he loves surprises? I remember the
time my father and I were going to the
Los Angeles airport to meet Mr. Feld,
Paul’s agent. The evening before, when
Paul telephoned, I said how much I wished
he were coming, too.

“Yes, I wish I were, too,” he said, “but
this time I can’t make it.” Paul, who was
born in Canada, now lives in the house
he bought for his parents in New Jersey
and his own music company, “Spanka,”
keeps him busy.

Anyway my father and I met Mr. Feld
and after his luggage was finally claimed,
we drove off. A block from the airport my
father decided to stop for gas. And who
walked out of that gas station but Paul!

I swooned. I positively swooned. With
my mouth wide open in surprise, I just
sat there and stared. Later, I learned my
father had secretly driven Paul to the air-
field and, while Mr. Feld and I saw to the
luggage, he had driven Paul on to the gas
station.

Of course they had planned the whole
thing together, but the pleasure it gave
Paul to see me so knocked out with sur-
prise and delight — well, I learned then
that men love to surprise the one they
love and see the look of real joy and
happiness it brings.

So different from Frankie

When I met Paul, the humility of this
famous person was so refreshing to me.

I met Paul and Frankie Avalon together
one night at dinner. Mr. Feld had arranged
it and I never met two boys so entirely
different. Paul sat there most of the eve-
ning with his head down as if he were
afraid to look up. The great Paul Anka
who already had eight gold records!

“Why, he’s shy,” I remember thinking
and I could hardly believe it.

But Frankie, who looks so frail, or maybe
I mean girl-shy, isn’t at all. He has a
direct approach and a natural quality
about him that is wonderful. I know when
Mr. Feld asked me if I’d like to be on the
Dick Clark show and I was too stunned

to answer, Frankie laughed with me — not
at me.

As I came to know Frankie better, I
began to realize he was the sweetest boy
I had ever met. He made me feel gay and
happy. Where Paul is kind of stormy and
unpredictable, Frankie is always the same.

His straight-out approach with girls is
wonderful. For instance, he’ll telephone
me and, with no fussing about it, he’ll ask
for a date. But Paul, who really looks
aggressive, isn’t that way at all. Paul’s
emotions seem to get in the way.

Look, I don’t want jealousy or anything
else to come between me and Paul, but
the truth is, I like aggressive males. I
want a boy to come after me. I don’t want
to keep smoothing the way.

I’m so fond of Frankie that I can’t help
but compare him and Paul. For instance,
when Frankie comes to pick me up for a
date, he’ll notice right away what I’m
wearing. If it’s a new and becoming dress
he’ll say, “Gee you look wonderful.”

Paul never does. And yet, deep inside I
know he’s pleased with the way I look.

Frankie never asks me about my other
dates or where I’ve been.

Paul does. And we both suffer over it.

I’ve found Paul needs attention — a lot
of it — and all the time. He refused to an-
swer the phone once when I tried to ex-
plain why I couldn’t make one of his
shows.

I guess if I’ve learned anything about
men from Paul, it’s that each is different
and each requires special understanding.
Frankie is wonderful to be with on a date.
And Paul is the boy who knows me best,
understands me and I hope will always be
the closest friend I have.

My ideal man would be a mixture of
both Paul and Frankie, I guess. A boy
with Frankie’s looks and fabulous per-
sonality and Paul’s wonderful understand-
ing. A boy who, like Frankie, could laugh
when it’s time to laugh and, like Paul, be
serious when it’s time to be serious.

I know that Paul and I have certainly
been through a year I wouldn’t have
missed for the world. It’s been sweet.
Bittersweet.

Recently Paul handed me one of his
latest songs. It was called “Puppy Love.”
“I wrote it for you,” Paul said.

I looked at the song and I thought about
that title. “Puppy Love.” And all of a sud-
den I didn’t feel nearly so sure of myself.
Is Paul beginning to think that what I
feel for him is only puppy love?

It is true that lately, I’ve been asking
myself if I think I’d be happy married to
someone like Paul. And I decided no. You
see, Paul loves his work more than any-
thing. At least he does now. Of course, I
don’t know what he’ll be like when he’s
older. But I want a husband who loves me
more than anything. And I don’t want to
marry anyone connected with show busi-
ness. I want to marry a business man. A
lawyer maybe. Because I think it’s very
seldom that two people in show business
get along as man and wife. And I’d like to
try combining marriage with a career,
though I’d give it up if my husband wanted
me to. I’d give it up to raise a big family.

But that’s all a long way off and it’s
silly to even talk about it now. I’m only
seventeen and life, as some of the kids
would say, is “Real cool.” I want to date
lots of boys and that’s what I decided. I
want to have lots of fun before I get seri-
ous and settle down.

this is Annette’s own story, as she

THOUGHT ABOUT IT WHILE ON HER WAY FROM
CALIFORNIA TO NEW YORK RECENTLY, AND
THEN, RETURNING HOME, TOLD IT TO SARA
HAMILTON. ANNETTE SINGS ON THE VISTA
LABEL. SEE PAUL IN U.I.’s “THE PRIVATE LIVES
OF ADAM AND EVE.” PAUL SINGS FOR ABC-PAR.

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TUESDAY WELD

Continued, from page 43

price of admission — conformity. I was al-
ways considered different. Nobody took
the time to really know me. Nobody sensed
my longing for acceptance, the frustration,
the hurt.

I began to create a world of my own. In
this world, I could pretend that I was
happy, loved, warm, secure, untroubled.

I guess the main reason for the things
that happened, all started when I was
three. My father died. We had no money
left, and the four of us, Mother, my sister
Sally, my brother David and me, had to
live in a tenement building on the lower
East Side of New York. My mother had to
go to work to support us, and when I was
three, I went to work, too, as a model. I
had pretty dresses and shiny patent leather
shoes and a warm coat and a handbag and
a pair of tiny white gloves. I had to look
nice when Mother took me on the rounds
of agencies and advertisers, department
stores and magazine offices. Everything I
earned, that was left over from our bare
living expense, was spent on clothes. I was
poor, like the other kids, only I didn’t
look it!

So the other kids would gang up on me
and tease me. The boys would crowd
around, push me and tear the black rib-
bon bows off my shiny Mary Janes. They
used to follow me down the street, yelling
things. I couldn’t understand why — I was
just like them. Many times, on purpose,
I’d rub dirt on myself and run outside and
stand there hoping they would ask me to
play. Sometimes they did. I was good at
playing games that required make-believe.
One of the favorite games of the girls, on
the block, was playing movie star and,
when they let me play, I was so happy I
really put on a performance. I’d be Mrs.
Cary Grant and we’d pretend we had just
come home from some fancy party. I’d
make up talk as I went along, and the
others would follow me. It was wonderful,
while it lasted, but as soon as the game
was over they would leave me alone.

School was worse

When I started school, things got even
worse. In the first grade, the kids in class
used to tease me and call me teacher’s pet.
I wasn’t. It’s just that I had permission to
be absent when I got a modeling job, but

the kids thought this meant the teacher
liked me better.

When I was eight, we moved to Fort
Lauderdale, Florida. I started going to
public school and made my family promise
they wouldn’t tell anybody I had been a
model. But I was still an outsider. I en-
tered a fifth-grade class where everybody
knew everybody but me. Besides, I’d been
in and out of school so much, going on
modeling assignments, that I hadn’t been
able to learn as much as other kids my
age. When I had to get up in front of the
class to read, it was torture. I’d stumble
over the simplest words, and everybody
would laugh.

I kept looking for a way to belong. Most
of the girls in my class were Brownies,
so I joined the troop. I called myself a
Brownie but I wasn’t one, really. We used
to get together and cook things, only I
didn’t know how. I’d never been taught.
They laughed at my clumsy attempts until,
one day, I ran home from a meeting and
never went back.

When I was nine, something happened
which set me further apart from the rest
of the kids my age. Before, it had been
my clothes. Now it was a case of Mother
Nature playing games — I put on weight,
my skin broke out in those red bumps
that other kids don’t get till they’re 13 or
14. I was a mess — a real mess. I never
knew, till a few months ago, but my mother
had noticed this change coming on and
that was one of the reasons why she had
taken me away from New York.

The turning point

I was ten and a half when we went back
to live on the lower East Side, in the very
same tenement we’d left two years before.

I registered with the model agency,
again, but I could tell they weren’t too
anxious to have me. They kept sending
me out on jobs but I was always too heavy,
or too short, or too tall, or too something or
other. I began to feel even more miserable.

But I kept making the rounds. A year
went by and my skin cleared up and my
figure lost its fat lumpiness. I looked at
least fifteen — or so I thought.

I joined a little-theater group and met
lots of people with whom I had things in
common We all had a desire to act or be,
in some way, in show business. I met this
group a few months before my twelfth
birthday. I was determined that, this time,
nothing would stop me from being ac-
cepted, so I decided to tell them I was
sixteen. They were all older and I knew

they wouldn’t want a 12-year-old around.

I began to wear heavy make-up, piled
my hair on top of my head, put on high
heels and tight skirts. I changed myself on
the outside in order to be like the rest
of the group. Kids my own age didn’t seem
to like me, so I tried to find acceptance in
an older world.

This was a turning point in my life. I
began to live a lie. I began to deceive
everyone I met, pretending to be some-
thing I wasn’t. By this time, we had been
able to afford to move from the old neigh-
borhood, so I could have had some of my
friends over without being ashamed of
my home. But I never did. I was afraid
they’d meet my family and find out I
wasn’t all I said I was.

I felt my real life was dull and un-
interesting, so I began making up stories
about myself. I told people I had been
born in England, that I lived half the year
with my family in a swanky apartment,
and the rest of the year I had my own
place. I told them I was going abroad.
That I had been to Europe lots of times,
and still found it fascinating. You can’t
imagine the stories I told and, miraculous-
ly, my new friends believed me. They liked
me. I was “in.” Everyone listened to me
as long as I had interesting things to say,
so I kept making up more and more lies
until I was in so deep, I just couldn’t get
out. It finally got to the point where I had
to buy a notebook and write down all the
things I told people, so I wouldn’t forget.

Besides wearing lots of make-up and
older clothes, I looked for affectations I
thought would help me seem even older.
I started to smoke. I hated it. I literally
forced myself to light a cigarette and puff
nonchalantly. And somehow I even con-
vinced myself that I was really like the
imaginary girl I had created. I know, now,
I was just a lonely, desperate child trying
too hard to belong.

The road to unhappiness

Two years passed. I was in the thick of
things; running around with a group of
people, most of whom were twice my age.
My work was coming along well. I had a
little bit of success and I lived from day
to day, suppressing any thoughts of the
tomorrows. I had no idea that I had started
down a road that would lead me to tre-
mendous unhappiness.

In April of 1958, a few months before my
fifteenth birthday, I arrived in Hollywood.
All we could afford was a tiny cubbyhole
of an apartment. Then, as I began to get
work, we’d keep moving around from one
place to another until it seemed that every
time I finished unpacking, we were out
looking for another apartment.

I didn’t know a soul in town. All I did
was work, come home and feel depressed.
In California, it isn’t easy to get places
unless you have a car. In New York, I
could hop on the subway or catch a bus
and be with friends, but not now.

The first person I met out here, was Tab
Hunter. I tried to act very sophisticated
when I was with him and I had no idea
he’d found out my real age, because this
was before all the publicity began. He
took me to my very first premiere. When
we got there, we were interviewed. The
man didn’t know me, so Tab introduced
me and the man asked me to tell a little
bit about myself. “How old are you?” he
asked. I smiled and said, “I’m eighteen”
without batting an eyelash. When we
walked away, Tab said, “Oh, Tuesday, you
know you’re only fourteen, so why don’t
you admit it? You should be proud to be
so young and have accomplished so much.”
(That’s what my mother kept telling me
but, at that time, I couldn’t see it that
way.) I was so embarrassed, I started an
argument with Tab and told him that I

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really was eighteen and that he had been
misinformed!

Tab was pretty busy so I didn’t see him
too often. Somehow, I drifted in with a
crowd that resembled, at least on the sur-
face, the one I had left in New York. They
were all on the fringes of show business in
one way or another. From the beginning,
they seemed to like me. I guess they’re
what’s considered a “wild” group. But, at
the time, I couldn’t see it. If it hadn’t been
for them, I’d have been alone. I found
them fascinating, too. They used to talk
about acting and philosophy, and about all
their big plans. I didn’t know they were
lying, anymore than they knew I was
lying to them about some things in my
past. I didn’t realize it then, but we were
all pretty much mixed up for one reason
or another.

My mother thought if I enrolled in high
school and met kids of my own age, it
would help me. I didn’t think it would, but
I was willing to try. I enrolled at Holly-
wood High. It was a disaster!

The first day of school, I had an appoint-
ment for a job interview at 4 o’clock. I
had to be all dressed up and since school
wasn’t over until 3: 15, I knew I wouldn’t
have time to go home and change. So, I
went to school dressed in “business”
clothes — a black sheath, high heels and
stockings. My hair was piled on top of my
head, I wore make-up and carried my
books and more make-up in a big black
tote bag. I also wore black gloves, which
were not only part of the outfit, but which
also made it easier to carry the heavy
tote bag.

When I walked into my first class, I
could feel every eye on me. Then they
began to whisper. I wanted to sink through
the floor. Between classes, when I walked
down the hall, kids turned to stare. They
pointed at me and some began teasing and
saying awful things. I couldn’t imagine
why or what I had done. That afternoon,
one of the teachers called me up after
class and told me to remove my gloves,
that my outfit was bad enough but that
sitting in class with gloves was causing a
big disturbance. I had started out in the
morning wearing gloves and for some
reason I had kept them on during class
without even being aware of it. But when
I was criticized for something I consid-
ered harmless, I had to fight back. When
the teacher asked me why I wore gloves,
I took a deep breath and told her I had to
wear them because I had a contagious rash
on my hands; that if I removed them, the
whole school would catch my disease! She
asked me what kind of disease I had. I told
her it was called lacore and that I had
picked it up in Mexico. Of course, I'd
never even been to Mexico and, as far as
I knew, there was no such word but, by
this time, I didn’t care what I said!

I stayed at that school for a week. Nat-
urally, once I’d made up my story, I was
stuck with it, so I wore the black gloves
every day. I also decided to dress as I
pleased and wore heels, my hair up and
clothes usually reserved for business ap-
pointments. The kids kept staring and the
teachers kept picking on me, telling me I
was creating a disturbance. One of them
finally told me she didn’t believe I had
a rash and to take off the gloves imme-
diately. I refused. The principal sent for
me. She told me I was not to come to
school anymore in such a get-up, that it
wasn’t right. Then she asked me why I
couldn’t be like everybody else. Inside, my
stomach felt like a butter churn. I wanted
to cry out and tell her I’d been trying to
find out the answer to that question since
I’d been a child. Instead, I just looked at
her and said I couldn’t be like everyone
else because I was me. It turned into a
real mess. When I walked down the halls,
I felt as if I were the target for mass

hatred. I had gone there hoping they’d
like me, wanting to belong — but I couldn’t.
I still didn’t understand why the other
kids wouldn’t let me be friends.

Fortunately, I was able to leave and go
to school at the studio. I was the only
pupil in the 20th school, until Fabian came
out to make a picture. I didn’t care about
being alone in a classroom. It was heaven
after what I’d been through!

Her worst enemy

Then the publicity started. Everytime
I read something about me that wasn’t
true, it hurt me inside. I got to the point
where I felt that if people were going to
write such things about me and hurt me,
then I’d go ahead and do just what I
wanted to, even if some of the things I
did were “kookie.” I thought, by doing
this, I would show them I didn’t care, but
actually all I did was hurt myself.

Then I made “Because They’re Young”
at Columbia; I was doing lots of TV shows
and had a running part in the “Dobie
Gillis” TV series. I didn’t have any time
off, but the work turned out to be a bless-
ing in disguise. After a day of school and
work, I’d be too tired to want to go out.
I began staying home more and more.
Home, was now a two-level house that we
owned. For the first time in my life, I had
roots — a place where I really belonged. I
began to examine myself, and I discovered
I didn’t always have to be running away.

I still went out with the group, occasion-
ally, but now, after I’d been with them
an hour or so, I’d start asking myself what
I was doing there. I never had a good an-
swer, so I’d get up and leave.

I began picking up hobbies and reading
more. I enrolled in a modern dance class
and began teaching myself the flute. Now
that I had my own car, I sometimes took
drives alone and just quietly thought about
life and me and all the important things.
I finally learned to discipline myself, and
I’ve begun trying to find out what I’m
really like.

I learned I’d been my own worst enemy.
I discovered that I could have fun with
people my own age; with people like
Fabian and Dick Beymer. And I suddenly
accepted the fact that I was sixteen — not
eighteen, or twenty-five.

Ever since I made this discovery, life has
suddenly become much easier for me. Even
my relationship with my mother has
changed. Before, I defied her — just as I
did everything else — now, I no longer look
upon her as an adult who doesn’t under-
stand me.

Today, I think I’m on the right track. I
still have quite a way to go and every
once in a while, I find myself starting to
go back to some of my old ways, only
now I understand why and I’m able to stop
myself. There’s one more problem to be
solved, though.

I want desperately for people to know
the truth about me. I want them to know
what I’m really like and how I feel about
things. I want them to know I am working
hard to improve as an actress, and as a
human being. I want to be liked and ac-
cepted for my talent and not looked upon
as just a personality continually making
offbeat news. I’ve done things that I
wouldn’t do again if I had it to do all over,
but I’ve never, never done anything or
said anything to hurt anyone but myself.
That’s what I want people to believe.

I hope it’s not too late for me to be ac-
cepted. I leave it up to you! The End

WATCH FOR TUESDAY WELD IN 20th’s “HIGH
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TOMMY SANDS

Continued from page 38

for just over a year and he’d been going
steady with her since Thanksgiving, but
he’d never really met her father.

Once, a friend who knew both of them,
had introduced Tommy and Frank, but it
was so quick that Tommy hadn’t had a
chance to say more than hello. Since then,
they nodded when they passed each other
in a restaurant or there’d be a brief hand-
shake at some crowded Hollywood parties.
But never more than that.

And now, Tommy wanted to marry ,
Frank Sinatra’s daughter. He had a tight,
nervous feeling deep in his stomach, and
his hand shook a little as he put the money,
for their dinner, down on the little tray the
waiter had brought with the check.

Nancy reached over and touched his arm
lightly, and it helped, the way it always
did. “I’m going to marry her, no matter
what,” Tommy told himself . . .

No Bells Rang

And yet their first meeting had been so
casual. No bells had rung and there’d been
no blinding flash of love-at-first-sight. A
year ago, Christmas, some friends had
taken him to a party at Nancy’s house. And
then, last August, when he’d opened at the
Cocoanut Grove, she’d come backstage with
a group of friends and they’d met again.

It was a Saturday night and lots of peo-
ple were crowding into his dressing room,
but there’d been time for her to say, “I
really like the way you sing, Tommy,” and
he’d taken her hand and held it for a
moment. Afterward, Tommy turned to a
friend. “She’s real cute,” he’d said. “I
wonder if she’ll go out with me.”

“Not a chance,” his friend answered,
shaking his head. “She’s taken. Everyone
says she and Jack McGiveney are going to
get married.” Tommy said “oh,” and
thought to himself that it was always like
that, that it was too bad the way the cutest
girls always got snatched up so fast. But
he was pleased that Frank Sinatra’s daugh-
ter had come backstage to congratulate
him. When he was getting ready for his
opening, he had spent the day before play-
ing Sinatra records to himself for hours.

It was just before Thanksgiving when
Tommy heard that Nancy and Jack had
split up. He called two of his friends, Eddie
Goldstone and Bill Belasco, and they got
Nancy’s phone number for him. Then he
called her and she remembered the time
they’d met. She said, yes, she’d go to a
party with him.

Driving to the party, and for a while
after they’d arrived, Tommy and Nancy
were both rather quiet. Tommy doesn’t
open up with people until he’s known them
for a while and Nancy, too, has a kind of
shy reserve at first meeting. After a while,
they found themselves sitting off in a cor-
ner alone. They were listening to the
record player when Nancy started to talk
about music. She told Tommy she’d even
thought about a singing career for herself.
She’d taken acting lessons, too, and
couldn’t decide between the two. Tommy
told her about the songs he wanted to
write, about how his father wrote songs,
too, but how he never sang any of them.
By the time he pulled his car up in front
of Nancy’s house and they said goodnight,
they were talking more easily with each
other.

A few days later, they had their second
date . . .

“If Frank Sinatra had any objections to
Tommy Sands,” a friend very close to the
family said, “the boy wouldn’t even have
been allowed to phone a second time.”

Tommy knew that was true. He also knew
that Frank had always kept a close eye on
his daughter. Nancy had told him that
somehow her dad always knew when she’d
stayed out too late on a date and that he
always called her the next morning to
scold her about it.

Frank hadn’t objected to that second
date. But still, now that he was to meet
Nancy’s dad, Tommy had an awful sinking
feeling. Now that it was a question of
marriage, Frank might feel a whole lot
different.

Lying in bed, the night before, Tommy
tried to think what Frank would say when
they met. If only he could know that, then
he could have his answers all pre-
pared. But when he’d shut his eyes, he
couldn’t seem to hear Frank saying any-
thing. He couldn’t sleep, so he’d gotten out
of bed and slipped on his robe. He’d
switched on a small table lamp and begun
pacing back and forth. He was often rest-
less like this — particularly before an open-
ing— and lots of times he’d have trouble
sleeping. Sometimes, he’d get up and play
the bongos and that would relax him.

But this night, he’d just slouched down
in the armchair and, lighting a cigarette,
tried to think. Some people had compared
him to Sinatra . . .

We Both Needed A Friend

Frank was an only child, just as he was,
and he’d been frail as a kid, too.

But Tommy had been poor and that had
bothered him a lot when he got to high
school. The other kids weren’t exactly
rich, but they didn’t have to worry about
money. Tommy did. He didn’t have the
right clothes and he didn’t have money to
buy a girl a soda or take her to the movies.
He didn’t feel bitter about it, but he was
always uncomfortable with the other kids.

He’d needed friends, especially in his
teens, when his mother and father were
divorced. Tommy understood when his
father, a pianist, had to go off on the road
and be away from them for long months
at a time. That was show business and he
understood. He’d been in show business
himself, since the time he was eight, play-
ing a guitar on radio. But for his mother,
the separations were harder and harder,
and eventually there was the divorce.

Not having money then, hurt even more
for some reason. His mother had had to
work and Tommy knew that she worked
hard. He’d always hesitate about asking
her for money even for things he really
needed like carfare or lunch money. And
when he’d found out she was doing without
new clothes and, lots of times, even with-
out lunch for herself, he’d question: “Well
what does a guy say to his mother when he
finds out she’s going hungry for him?” He
thought he had had the answer. Just before
he was supposed to graduate from high
school, he’d quit school to take a job on
radio. Later, he was sorry.

Tommy had read stories that Frank was
poor, too. But he also knew that Frank
said that wasn’t true. Frank’s neighbor-
hood, in Hoboken, was more or less a
middle-class section and Frank, like the
kids Tommy used to feel so uncomfortable
with, didn’t have to worry about money.
Frank was an only child and his parents
bought him everything he needed. Even
though his mother, Dolly, was busy in

PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS
Tuesday Weld color and black-and-white by Globe;
Debbie Reynolds and Harry Karl color at Thalian
party by Bernard Abramson (Vista Photos ); Debbie
Reynolds and Carrie color by Topix; Debbie Reyn-
olds and Harry Karl at "Ben-Hur" premiere by
Globe; Annette and Paul Anka color and black-
and-white by Topix; Nick Adams color and black-
and-white by Globe; "Copy the Looks of a Star"
by Vivian Crozier; Tommy Sands and Nancy Sinatra
by Frank Gilloon; Elvis Presley by Frank Gilloon
and New York Daily News; Cheryl Crane by Globe.

local politics, Frank had had someone to
look after him — his grandmother. He was
cared for so lovingly, that the kids nick-
named him “Slacksey O’Brien” because he
had so many different pairs of pants.

The “O’Brien” was because his father
used to prize fight under the name of
Marty O’Brien. Marty had taught Frank
how to use his fists, too, and that had
helped him to be accepted by some of the
tougher kids in the neighborhood, even if
he was skinny. Tommy had heard that,
even today, Frank liked tough men around
him.

Would He Understand?

His thoughts still whirling, Tommy left
the armchair and began pacing up and
down again. Without even knowing what
he was doing, he began to twist nervously
at one of the buttons on his pajama top.
When the button came off in his hand, he
looked at it, surprised.

If only he knew what Frank would say
tomorrow. Tommy didn’t think he’d pick
on the question of their religions — at least
not right away. Nancy was a practicing
Catholic, and Tommy had been raised as a
Methodist — his mother’s religion — and his
father was Jewish. Nancy, herself, had said
this difference was “touchy,” but Tommy
was sure they could find a way to solve it.
He didn’t know how Frank felt about inter-
marriages, but he knew that he wasn’t
prejudiced in any way. The neighbor who’d
helped look after him, when his grand-
mother died, had been Jewish and Tommy
had also read of how Frank had walked out
of his son’s christening when the priest
started to object to his having a Jewish
godfather.

Tommy thought, too, that Frank would
understand about his having belonged to
the “Young Raiders.” Frank would under-
stand about a guy wanting to belong to
something.

The Raiders were all young actors and
singers and they had fun running around
town together. Tommy hoped Frank
wouldn’t remember the time Lindsay Cros-
by, who was their chief, had told a news-
paper reporter that Frank Sinatra and his
friends — “the Clan”— were getting “old.”
For a while, it seemed as though the
Raiders were trying to compete with the
Clan for headlines, and even for members.
Tommy quit the group just about the time
he went to New York to study with Actors’
Studio, but he remembered that the Raid-
ers’ biggest crusade had been to try to win
Sammy Davis Jr. away from the Clan. He
was pretty sure Frank must have just
laughed about that. And after all — it was
all in fun and just a test of loyalty.

Loyalty was important to Frank; that’s
what people who knew him said. Someone
had told Tommy about the time Frank was
fourteen. His allowance was larger than
the other kids’ and he had bought a sea-
son’s pass to the Palisades swimming pool.
The other kids didn’t have passes, but
Frank would go around back and slip his
pass to them, one by one, so they could
get in, too. One day, the guard caught
them at it. His friends ran away, but the
guard managed to grab Frank and beat
him up. “I got those guys into the swim-
ming pool,” Frank said, “but, when I was
getting clobbered, not one of them came
to help me. They just — scramsville.”

Were They Too Young?

Tommy looked at the picture of Nancy,
on his dresser, and then at the little clock
next to it. He saw it was getting late, and
as he ran his fingers nervously through
his hair, he knew he still wouldn’t be able
to sleep.

Were he and Nancy too young? He was
22 and Nancy was 19, just about the same

age Frank and Nancy Sr. had been when
they got married. Although it was true
that they’d come from the same town,
both from Italian backgrounds, and they’d
known each other for four years before
they got married. Yet, their marriage
had failed. Maybe Frank would say that
young marriages were too much of a
gamble.

Or maybe Frank would talk about his
being a singer. Maybe he’d say he didn’t
want his Nancy to be caught in the same
kind of show-business marriage that her
mother had been.

Tommy could understand some of these
objections. He knew that it was asking a
lot of a girl to put up with the doubts and
insecurities he’d sometimes face. There
was that terrible drive he felt, too, the
need to keep proving himself. That meant
more tension, more nervousness — and more
demands on a wife to try to understand
him.

He still thought his own success had
come too fast. It meant he had to live up
to it each time he sang after that. He
wondered if Frank had ever felt the same
way.

When Frank had hit it big, he was once
more the boy with the pass to the swim-
ming pool. He surrounded himself with
friends. Tommy knew Nancy Sr., today,
and he was impressed at how well groomed
and dressed she was. But he’d heard she
hadn’t always been like that. People said
she was basically a home girl, though
she’d learned new tricks in make-up and
had tried to dress up to her part as Frank
Sinatra’s wife.

Still, Frank hadn’t been a success very
long before the rumors began to reach
Nancy. A friend would call and say she’d
seen Frank with another woman or, when
the phone didn’t ring, Nancy could read
about it in the gossip columns. Sometimes
it was true; sometimes it wasn’t. It’s a
hard thing for any woman to forget, espe-
cially when it’s written in black and white.

Publicity can harm a love. Tommy knew
all about the wrong kind of publicity.
When he first came to Hollywood, he’d met
a girl, Molly Bee, and after a while he
gave her a ring, two hearts entwined, be-
cause that seemed just right for her.
Everybody said they’d get married — and
that was just the trouble. Everybody was
saying it; everybody was watching them.
Tommy knew publicity had to be part of
his life, but he blamed that publicity for
spoiling his romance with Molly.

He’s never really played the field. For
him, it was one girl at a time, and after
Molly there’d been a succession of other
girls, though none of them could get him
started thinking seriously, the way Molly
had done. He felt insecure about girls,
and he couldn’t help wondering, each time
he started to telephone one of them,
whether she’d say yes because he was
Tommy Sands, the singer, or because she
really liked him for himself. Did she want
something from him? he’d wonder. He
was never really sure.

It was one of the things that made him
feel so good about being with Nancy. She
was Frank Sinatra’s daughter and that
meant she had position, money, that every-
where she went, the doors were open to
her. She didn’t need anything or want
anything from him. When Nancy and
her mother had come to Las Vegas, while
he’d been singing there, somebody ’d said
that Nancy stuck so close to him you’d
think they were shackled together. Well,
if she did, Tommy knew it was because
she liked him.

And Tommy felt the same way. He
couldn’t stand to be away from her. He
tried not to think about having to go into
the Army in May, and the six months’
separation that would mean.

He remembered their last separation,
when he’d had to go on tour to sing for
two weeks. That’s when he knew, for
sure, that he loved her. He’d called her
long distance and asked her to marry him.
Maybe a proposal over the phone wasn’t
the way Nancy had dreamed it would be,
he thought now, but anyway she’d said
yes. She felt the way he did, too, about
getting married as soon as they could.
They even talked about eloping. But, then,
Nancy laughed and said, “I don’t think
we could ever get away with it.” Finally
they decided to marry around December.
Remembering that phone call, remember-
ing that she loved him, he was finally able
to flick off the light and fall into a sound
sleep. . . .

. . . And Then He Laughed

Nancy had been quiet on the way to
her father at the ABC studio and Tommy
smiled at her now, gratefully. She always
seemed to be able to sense his moods and
then to do just the right thing to help
him out of them. He pushed open the
outside door and let her go in ahead of
him. Once inside the big building, he
looked around for some sort of directory
which might tell him which way to turn,
but, then, Nancy took his arm. “It’s this
way,” she said softly. Somehow, her being
sure of even such a little thing, made him
feel better.

Inside the studio, the big cameras were
dollying around to find the best angles
and men with earphones on were shouting
instructions they’d gotten from the glass
control room. Nancy and Tommy stepped
carefully over the cables that stretched in
every direction on the floor. When Frank
spotted them, he waved and began to
walk over to meet them. Tommy felt a
moment of panic. He’d tried to plan so
carefully what he wanted to tell Frank,
but now he couldn’t think of a thing to say
to him.

Frank gave Nancy a hug and then he
shook Tommy’s hand. Nancy could usually
tell, just by looking at her father’s eyes,
what he was thinking. But she couldn’t
read the expression in them now as he
said, “Come on over here, Tommy. We
can talk better.”

She watched them walk over to one side
of the big barn-like rehearsal studio. No-
body could hear what they were saying,
not even Nancy.

A friend in the TV crew, started to
talk to her and she had to turn toward
him and smile and be polite. She longed
to turn around again, to try to catch a
glimpse of her father’s face. One look, she
was sure, was all she needed to tell her
what he thought of Tommy. But the man
kept talking. She hardly knew what he
was saying, she was praying so hard in-
side.

Then she heard her father’s laugh boom
out. It was his good laugh, the one that
meant everything was all right. Nancy
smiled at the man, but now she really
meant it.

Tommy was smiling, too, and Frank’s
arm was around his shoulder as they
walked back to where they’d left Nancy.
“I’m very happy about the whole thing,”
Frank said. He waved his hand in a ges-
ture that took in all the cameras and lights
and microphones and, laughing, said so
that everybody could hear him now, “I’m
glad there’ll be another singer in the
family, because I’m getting tired!”

—MILT JOHNSON

HEAR FRANK SINATRA AND TOMMY SANDS SING
ON THE CAPITOL LABEL. DON’T MISS FRANK AS
HE APPEARS IN WARNER’S “OCEAN’S ELEVEN,”
AND SEE HIM IN 20th’s “CAN-CAN.” BE SURE TO
WATCH AND ENJOY HIS SPECIALS OVER ABC-TV.

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NICK ADAMS

That’s how I feel. And I know I’m right.

Continued from page 46

were coming regularly, about ten or
twelve minutes apart, to phone him and
then go to the hospital. So we got out a
pad of paper and a stopwatch, cigarettes,
chipped ice, bologna, bananas, peanut but-
ter, but, when our glass roof lit up with
dawn, the muscular contractions were still
irregular.

I had to be at the studio, as usual, and
so Carol dressed and got her bag. We
paused as we crossed the moat that sur-
rounds our house. I felt like King Arthur
with Rowena. Carol waved to the fish and
turned to me and said, “Don’t forget to
feed the sharks.” I drove her to the hos-
pital and then went on. I won’t say I was
nervous because that would be the under-
statement of the year. I don’t remember
what went on at the set, that morning,
except that I got finished by 12:30 and
rushed back to the hospital. Carol was then
in the labor room and the muscular con-
tractions were strong. I stood there hold-
ing her hand and watching her wince.
And that’s when it got me and I forgot
about everything, even the baby, and
prayed, “Dear God, bring my wife back
alive.” And then Carol squeezed my hand
and said, "Hold me tight, Nick, this is the
worst pain I’ve had yet.” And I’ll never
forget that one, because her face got all
screwed up and my stomach got tied into
a big knot and just then two young nurses
stepped up and asked for autographs.

It was a tense situation and I was scared.
Real scared. This was no studio but an
actual hospital. The doctor had come in
wearing his white gown, and now it was
the way Carol was looking at me. her eyes
filled with worry over me. She said,
“Please don’t cry, Nick. It’s going to be all
right.”

And I thought, Now it’s going to happen.
Those doors at the far end of the room will
swing open and this slab of a table with
tiny wheels will be rolled into there. The
doctor put a comforting hand on Carol’s
shoulder and said, “Please relax, Mrs.
Adams. Your husband will pull through.
You know,” he went on, adding that old
bromide we men hear so often, “you know
we haven’t lost a father yet.”

“That’s right, honey,” I told Carol, “after
all, you’re the one who’s having the baby.
Not me.”

The doctor signaled the attendants to
wheel Carol into the delivery room, then
he turned to me and said, “Mr. Adams, we
could put you in an oxygen tent, but I
think if you just go downstairs to the re-
ception room and smoke a cigarette or two
and read a magazine, everything will turn
out fine.”

And that’s the way it was in the labor
room. I really did cry and Carol looked up
and said, “Please don’t worry so or I’ll be
worrying about you.” The next day, she
told me she had drawn comfort from my
sudden tears. She said, “I was glad you
cried. I knew, when I went into the de-
livery room, that you really loved me.
That you really cared.” Then she grinned
and said, “But I guess everyone else was
puzzled for a while. I don’t think the doc-
tor was sure whether it was you or me
who was to have the baby.”

Well, when I got to crying, the doctor
kicked me out and I went down to the
waiting room. Carol’s mother was there
and I said, “Pretty soon now, and I’ll be
seeing my little boy.”

p She said, “Now, Nick, you may as well
begin to be realistic. No one knows wheth-
er it’s going to be a boy or girl.”

I said, “It’s definite now. They’ve de-

livered five babies here, today, and they’ve
all been girls. It’s the law of averages.
The next one has to be a boy.”

She insisted I rest. I guess I looked pret-
ty raunchy with no rest in two days and
I lay down. I didn’t know exactly who
was having that baby or feeling the pains.

Who’s pregnant?

But that’s how it was since the very be-
ginning. I mean, that morning sickness you
hear so much of. It was awful. Carol had
several books on pregnancy and she went
to one and looked up morning sickness.
“Now describe how you feel, Nick?”

I told her. “I just feel lousy sick with
nausea and my head hurts.”

“How else?” she asked.

“I get it only in the morning.”

“You’ve got morning sickness all right,”
she said finally, “but the book says here
I’m the one who is supposed to have it.”

But she looked great and I asked, “Are
you sure?”

My stomach began to turn, again, and
for a moment I held my peace and then I
said, “Now, Carol, honey, please look at
me. Maybe it’ll make you sick just looking
at me being sick and then I can forget
being sick because I’ll be too busy worry-
ing about you.”

She said, “I’m sorry, Nick, but I’m al-
ready worrying about you.”

The hunger pains were something else
again. All my adult life I’ve heard that jazz
about pregnant women waking up in the
middle of the night and demanding ice
cream or pickles and liverwurst. Well, I
was curious to see if it were true, and
then, just about the third month, it began
to happen. We’d go into the kitchen, about
2 a.m., and it was ridiculous. I mean like
fried bologna with melted cheese plus a
fried egg covered with ketchup and may-
onnaise between two slices of bread. Or
peanut butter spread topped with sliced
bananas, bacon, lettuce and mustard. And
I couldn’t comprehend Carol. I’d look at
her and ask. “Are you sure you won’t
have something to eat, too?” And she
would reply, “No, I just don’t feel hungry
at all.”

And so it went, with me gaining the
extra weight. Those first few months were
tough. I won’t kid about that. You see,
Carol and I had married within three
weeks from the day we first met. In those
three weeks we had discussed a family
and wisely decided that we should give
ourselves a year or more to know each
other before we had children. So what
happens? We get married on Mother’s Day
and a month after we are married, Carol
is pregnant.

We were adjusting to each other, to the
demands of marriage and to the emotional
stress of pregnancy. Carol was extra sen-
sitive and sometimes would just break
down and cry for no good reason. I loved
her and tried to reassure her, but we still
had stupid beefs. Like a thing about my
not hanging up my clothes. And then,
sometimes, I was just too tired to reason
at all. I remember once, I just plunked
down in a chair and snapped on the tele-
vision. As it happened, The Three Stooges
were on.

“Nick,” she cried, “what kind of a moron
are you?”

“An intelligent moron.”

“No you’re not,” she said. “Your chil-
dren should be watching the Stooges. Not
you. You’re a dumb moron.”

I didn’t give in. I said, “This is one of the
best shows on television. It’s very educa-
tional.”

Then she grinned and we laughed. As I
said, a natural sense of humor helps. That
and love. I mean, it’s better to kiss and
make up before you begin another hassle.

Cravings and all

We both tried hard. On work days, I’d
get up at five a.m. and I would get up
quietly to let Carol sleep, but, when I got
out of the shower, she was in the kitchen
making coffee. And I tried to cater to her
and occasionally she did have hunger
whims — although they were quite bland
compared to mine. Around midnight, she
would sometimes get hungry for melted
mozzarella cheese, but only the way it was
served at La Scala. So, off we would scoot
in the car. And often, in the middle of the
night, she would ask for chipped ice, so I
would go into the kitchen, smash a few
cubes and bring her back a plateful of ice.
Now did you ever try to get back to sleep
while someone next to you is grinding ice
in her teeth? And while you probably
know how miserable it is to get to sleep
when there are cracker crumbs on a sheet,
do you know how it feels to be dozing off
and then feel a chunk of ice nestle up to
the small of your back?

As I noted, we had given up the idea of
planned parenthood so we weren’t sur-
prised when we had the doctor’s confirma-
tion. I mean, it wasn’t like the movies
when the husband gets home and finds
flowers on the table and a coy, mysterious
smile on his wife. So, when we had the
doctor’s word, I called my parents back
in Jersey and right away they began to
give me advice. Said mother, “Take care
of Carol. She’s not going to be feeling
good.” Dad said, “Nicky, you must start
saving your money.” And then we broke
the news to Carol’s parents — my mother-
in-law and father-in-law.

My Inlaws

I get along fine with Carol’s folks be-
cause they are great people. We’re always
at their home on Sunday nights to watch
“The Rebel” and the fact that we can’t get
Channel 7 where we live, has nothing to
do with it. I remember the first time I met
Carol’s father, which was twenty-four
hours after I had met Carol at a party.
That night, he told me Irish jokes and
played some Irish records for me and I
said to him, “Well, you know I’m Ukran-
ian. I wonder what kind of children Carol
and I will have?” I guess he thought that
was pretty fresh but he didn’t throw any-
thing at me. Carol was sitting on my lap.
So, at dinner, two months later, I said,
“Well, we’re going to find out.” He said,
“Find out what?” I said, “Pretty soon
we’re going to find out what a child looks
like who is half Ukranian and half Irish.”

Oh, they were thrilled about becoming
grandparents. Where we differed, was on
the name. They gave in easily on the girl’s
name. We had decided on that one eve-
ning, when we had been with June Ally-
son and her husband Dick Powell. June
had said, “If it’s a girl, why don’t you call
her Allyson?” It struck us right and that
was settled, except that we weren’t going
to have a girl. I mean, we had decided
right on our honeymoon that our first
child would be a boy.

“So what will you call a boy?” Carol’s
mother asked.

I said, “He will be Reb Christian
Adams.”

“Won’t work,” Carol’s father said. “Give
him some common, run of the mill name.
Call him Nick Junior.”

I said, “I like Reb Christian.”

Carol’s mother said, “You can’t do that
to a little boy.”

My back got a little stiff. “Who says I
can’t call him Reb? Why, if it weren’t for
‘The Rebel’ I wouldn’t have the security
to marry and have a family.”

“But, with a name like Reb, he can only
be an actor or ballplayer.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” I asked.
“Look at Chuck Connors. He’s both a ball-
player and actor and doing very well.”

Home sweet home

In the sixth month of Carol’s pregnancy,
everything changed. I mean, from then on,
we had just the greatest relationship. I
had such a tremendous responsibility for
her. I wanted her to really feel that I was
with her all the way. And when Christmas
came, I thought that if ever I was going
to buy her anything nice, this was the
time to buy it. I gave her a beautiful, ex-
pensive gold watch and she was absolutely
thrilled, and then I startled her with a
silver mink jacket. And, in our sixth
month, we moved from our apartment up
to Outpost and into one of the most far-
out pads you’ve ever seen. It was Birdland.
I mean, if you can imagine a house that
combines the zany characteristics of
Groucho and Jerry Lewis, this is it. To get
to the house, you cross a bridge over a
moat and then you’re smack up against a
huge iron Chinese gate. The house itself
is circular. It has to be. I mean you
couldn’t have a square moat because there
are live fish in the moat, and it wouldn’t
be fair to make them turn corners.

And there is a glass roof on the house
which is just great if you’re a bird watch-
er, but if you don’t want to get blind
from the glare, you have to wear sun-
glasses at breakfast. And the shower looks
ordinary, with glass panels that slide back
and forth, but you kind of step down into
a basin and while the shower is coming
down at you a hidden inlet below begins
to fill this sunken area. It’s the only show-
er I’ve ever seen where you have to wear
both a shower cap and hip-length boots.
But it’s different anyway.

Because the house is round, everything
is built out of the wall. We slept in the
bedroom only two nights. The beds com-
ing out of the wall looked like tombstones,
so we cleared the playroom and bought an
old-fashioned double-bed. And nearly
everything is mechanized. You lean
against the wall and a hidden panel opens
on a closet. Or you press a button and the
dishwasher pops up and shakes your hand.
We never could quite make friends with
the refrigerator.

Perhaps the refrigerator got annoyed
because I would come out in the middle of
the night to wake it up to get ice for
Carol. Anyway, there is this automatic
ice-cube maker in the box that keeps
making cubes and dumping them unless
it’s turned off. I remember the morning I
was shaving and Carol went to the kitchen
to make juice and coffee. I heard a scream
and then a crash as if the glass roof had
caved in. I ran to the kitchen and there
was Carol with the refrigerator door open
and some three or four hundred ice floes
around her and she looked up at me and
said, “Anyone for skiing?”

The last months were murder for Carol.
She was very uncomfortable. We tried a
movie, once, but she just couldn’t sit long.
Weekends, we passed up invitations to
parties and picnics. When I wasn’t work-
ing, we were together. We sat together in
front of the television set even if one of
us didn’t care for the show, and I never
once, in all that time, tuned in The Three
Stooges.

And then it happened

And, then, it was nine months to the
day, and I was sleeping in the waiting
room, waiting to become a father. I don’t
know how long I slept before I heard this
voice coming at me, “Mr. Adams, you have

a lovely baby daughter. Congratulations.”

I wasn’t disappointed. Not for one split
second. When I got off the elevator, a
nurse was holding the most beautiful
baby I’d ever seen. I had heard all those
stories about how babies look like wrin-
kled prunes, but not Allyson. She was
beautiful, with wavy blond hair, fine fea-
tures and smooth skin. I followed the
nurse to the glass-paneled room where
they keep babies, and then they let me see
Carol.

“Honey,” I told her, “she’s the most
wonderful baby and now I’ve got two
beautiful girls to love.”

Then I let her go to sleep and, when I
came back in the evening, all the relatives
were there. None of mine, because mine
live in the East and that was when I got a
little mad. Carol’s mother said something
like, “You know, all of the babies in our
family are beautiful.” And then a friend of
Carol’s came in and said, “Carol, the baby
looks just like you.” And then I heard that
the baby had Uncle Jack’s nose, Cousin
Suzie’s eyes and Grandma Moses’ chin.
Finally, I reared up and said, “What about
me? Don’t you people know about the
birds and bees? It takes more than just a
woman to make a baby.”

It was awful being alone in the house.
How often I’d said to myself, “Wouldn’t it
be wonderful just to get one night’s sleep
uninterrupted,” and there I was alone.
Carol and the baby were fine. Nothing to
worry about, but I couldn’t sleep. And
then I would get to thinking that they
might make a mistake at the hospital.
They might get my beautiful baby mixed
up with another and I would bring the
wrong baby home.

A week later, Carol came home. Carol’s
recovery had been normal but the doctor
was very careful. He said that she would
have to stay in bed for another week and
insisted that she come home in an am-
bulance. I got to the hospital before noon
and, for the first time, they let me hold the
baby. It was funny. I’d never held a baby
before. Not even in an acting part, but it
felt so natural. I wasn’t afraid and I was
so proud. I bought her a baseball uniform
but she just cried when she saw it. And
then I carried Allyson to the ambulance
and they wheeled Carol in and the three
of us were closed in with an attendant who
was dressed all in white.

I remember the attendant told me he
was a “Rebel” fan and how much he had
enjoyed Sunday’s show and I said, “Look,
I think I smell gasoline fumes here. That’s
not good for a baby.” And he said, “Tell
me about the episode that’s coming up
next week,” and I said, “Now, look, that
driver should take it easy on the bumps.”
And then we were back at that kookie
house and there were Carol’s mother and
sister and my two secretaries and a nurse
and the two attendants and it was like a
small mob scene — but we were home. And
that was it.

The baby is wonderful. She sleeps right
through the night and everything is just
about back to normal. I’ve gotten so I can
make formula and empty the diaper bin.
Carol, who weighed eighty-nine when I
met her, looks as if she hadn’t gained an
ounce. Those middle-of-the-night-hun-
g'er-pains are gone now and Carol has lost
all desire for melted mozzarella. Now
we’re talking about moving into a differ-
ent neighborhood, where Allyson will have
nice safe streets to play in, and we’re even
beginning to talk about our next baby. I’d
like to have at least two more, but I hope
it’ll be easier the next time. I mean, I just
can’t stand thinking that I may have to
go through that morning sickness again.

The End

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ELVIS’ KISS

Continued from page 52

let his crewcut grow out. Soon Elvis came
through the back door — which I thought
was pretty sneaky of the Army — while we
were all waiting at the front entrance.
Flashbulbs flashed as the photographers
crowded around him. Then I ran up to get
an autograph.

I said “Elvis, will you please sign this?”

“Certainly,” he replied, smiling warmly.
From that moment on, I never once took
my eyes off his face. He must have given
me back the autograph book, because I
was holding it — and I suddenly realized
that his arm was around me!

I somehow mumbled, “Welcome home.”

“Thanks, it’s good to be home,” he re-
plied. “I’ve really missed this place. It’s
been a long, long time.”

“Hey Elvis,” somebody yelled, “that’s
the first American girl you’ve hugged here
in two years.” At that moment, I looked
around and saw that we were being pho-
tographed.

Elvis was a little nervous. “What’ll we
talk about?” he said. “I tell you, my mind’s
a complete blank.”

I finally said something about the
weather. Can you imagine that! For five
years, I’ve thought about meeting Elvis;
I’ve planned what I’d talk about and how
I’d say it — and then what happens? I talk
about the weather! It all turned out all
right, though, because we somehow got
off that subject.

I’m a bit hazy as to the exact sequence

of events after that. At one point, I re-
member saying, “You don’t know what I
went through to get here.”

And Elvis replying, “Honey, you don’t
know what I went through to get here.”
We both laughed. I could tell he began to
feel at ease then, because he moved much
closer to me. I remember his cheek touch-
ing mine — and the smell of shaving lotion.
I was so pleased to find he was taller than
me (I’m 5 feet 9 inches); he must be at
least 6 feet. And he seemed so kind and
friendly.

At about .this time, he kissed me. I must
confess something, though. I don’t remem-
ber it! This is really terrible because it is,
of course, the most important thing that
ever happened to me. He must have kissed
me though, because lots of the reporters
said they saw him do it. I only remember
that, over the microphone, a captain was
pleading with everyone to get off the stage
so the conference could begin. Dutifully,
I took a deep breath and said “I ... I
guess I’d better go.”

Elvis nodded. “I’m glad I met you, Pat.
I'll see you in a little while.”

As I walked from the stage, I looked
back and so did Elvis. He waved and I
tried to be brave about the whole thing
so I just smiled and waved back. One lady
asked me if Elvis and I had planned the
whole thing. I only wish we had!

Actually, I didn’t get too much of a
chance to talk with him after that, since
the conference soon began. Just before he
left, though, he took my hand and
squeezed it real hard. Then they began
asking him if he were going to continue
singing. And he said, “I’ll never abandon
rock ’n’ roll as long as people want it.”

And he told us he was going to grow back
his sideburns — but a little shorter than
before. And he’d be on TV in May and
make new records and films. He looked so
tired (he’d been answering questions for
two-and-a-half hours) and sad, too. I
think he must have been thinking of his
mother. Just before it all ended, I quickly
placed a crumpled piece of paper in his
pocket containing my name and address.
I hadn’t planned to do that, but I just
couldn’t leave that room without any hope
that I’d ever see him again.

Putting his hand into his pocket, he
smiled. He must have known, without
even looking at it, what it was. “I’ll see
you again,” he assured me.

“I hope so,” was the only thing left for
me to say. “Good luck, always.”

Then, as quickly as he came in, he left.
Every eye in the room watched him climb
up on the stage and walk out. He didn’t
look back. He just didn’t look back.

For the weeks after, I wondered how El
did feel, coming back home to Memphis
after so long. A lot had changed for him.
As I said, I wondered about it for quite a
few weeks. I wished I could call and talk
to him, but I didn’t know if that would
be the right thing to do. I didn’t know how
he felt about a girl calling up a boy.

Then I decided to tell the editors of
Photoplay about it. They said, “Well, we’ll
call him and Colonel Parker and find out.”
So, the next day, they did. And for what
they found, turn back to page 54.

The End

WATCH FOR ELVIS IN “C.I. BLUES” FOR PAR.
DON’T MISS HIS OLD FILMS WHICH ARE BEING
RE-RELEASED NOW. HE SINGS FOR RCA VICTOR.

LUCY AND DESI

Continued from page 56

still very much in love with each other.

It was back in 1951. The cast and crew
of “I love Lucy” were working late. They
were hot and dirty and tired, but they
were laughing. Some were bringing their
hands together in delighted applause.

“Lucy, that was great!”

“This’ll be the best show yet!”

“Does anyone know what time it is?
Boy, am I tired — ”

From the floor on which she lay
sprawled, legs out, a paint can on her
head, a ladder tilted against her back,
Lucille Ball managed a weary grin.

“You were tremendous, Lucy. You
were — ”

Through the babble of voices, another
voice cut. It spoke softly, yet it seemed
to slash a path of sound through the air.

“Okay — let’s take it once more,” the
voice said.

There was silence. A dozen people
looked at each other. Then the voices
rose in protest.

“Aw, Desi — ”

“Desi, for Pete’s sake, we’ve been here
for five hours without a breather!”

“Give us a break, Desi! We’re only
human.”

“Listen, Lucy’s done that bit seven
times already. She must be ready to drop.
Give her a break!”

Silence. The faces turned from Desi to
Lucy. The eyes watched the grin fading
from the wide mouth, took note of the
tired circles under the eyes.

Desi’s voice again: “What you say, Lucy—
p Are you too tired? Can you do it jus’ once
more?”

A moment’s pause. And then Lucille
Ball removed the paint can, eased away

the ladder, climbed wearily to her feet.
“Sure,” her voice said, determinedly
bright. “I’m fine. Let’s go. What — what
did I do wrong?”

It had happened so often, it became a
regular occurrence. The long rehearsals
The repeats and repeats. The worried
question: “You okay, Lucy?” The ex-
hausted answer: “Sure. I’m fine.”

Why? Why did she let Desi demand
what seemed impossible?

The answer was complex, but not hard
to find. It dated back to the day when
Lucille met Desi Arnaz, a Cuban band-
leader who was to work in one of her
movies. She was a star, then, and com-
paratively, he was no one — but he wore
like a garment the Cuban air of being a
man among men, of male pride, of calm,
masculine assurance. In his home, one
knew at a glance, there would be no ques-
tion of who ruled: the man did. Gently,
of course, kindly, loving, indulgently — but
unquestionably.

To Lucille, this was very wonderful. She
had seen so many Hollywood marriages in
which the woman, the big star, dominated
the home. She herself had worked since
she was a young girl, had had to fight her
way to the top with every bit of strength
and endurance she had. But, with a man
like Desi, a woman could build a real
love, a real marriage, secure in the knowl-
edge that her man would take care of her,
and do it well.

There were those who said that Lucille
Ball didn’t know what she was doing
when she married Desi Arnaz. But they
were wrong. She knew exactly what she
was doing.

She was taking her rightful place in
the scheme of things.

. . . But she was in love

There was no reason to give up her
career. Desi, for all his comparative ob-

scurity, had a flourishing career of his
own, made almost $100,000 a year — but
had to be on the road with his band a
great deal. While he was gone, she would
make movies. She loved her work, her
success, her fame. She’d worked hard for
it. And since Desi didn’t object —

So Desi went back on tour with his
band. Lucy went back to making movies.
Desi made money; Lucy made money.
They made so much, they could easily
afford the thousands of dollars spent on
phone calls keeping in touch with each
other, because they were never — literally
never — together.

It was very profitable, but it was not a
marriage.

After a while, they knew it wasn’t
working. Finally, Lucy took a desperate
step. She filed for divorce. She was
awarded a decree. For a few weeks, she
held onto it, telling herself that she had
done the right thing, the only thing. Then,
she went back to Desi.

They were more in love than ever, then,
and very determined to make their mar-
riage work. By now, they knew how it had
to be done. One of them would have to
give up a career.

It would have been easy for Desi to
have been the one. He could have become
Lucy’s manager. Or gotten, through her,
parts in her movies. Or refused to accept
anything but California dates for his band.
In most movie-star homes, that would
have been the solution.

Not in Lucy’s.

Without making headlines about it, she
quietly gave up most of her own work.

It was, people said, a mad thing to do.
She would never be happy without work-
ing. And what would they live on? The
demand for South American music was
not what it had once been.

“We’ll manage,” Lucy said. “I’m not
retiring altogether. I’ll do a radio show —
or something.” She smiled.

She was happy. That’s all that mattered.

One of the predictions did come true.
South American music was on its way out.
The Arnaz income dwindled greatly.

Lucy went right on being happy. She
and Desi were together; all was right with
the world.

And then she woke up to the fact that,
although she had what she wanted out of
life, her husband did not.

Desi Arnaz was, as she knew, a strong
man. It began to be clear to her that he
needed far more scope for his strength
than a failing band provided.

He needed work worthy of his talents.

So, when he came to her one day and
said, “I have an idea. A situation comedy
for television. We’ll star in it together,
and I will also have a hand in producing,
directing. Who do you think, honey?”

She looked at his eyes, alive with eager-
ness, she heard the hope and confidence
in his voice.

“Sounds good,” she said.

It meant giving up so much. Their
privacy. Their hard-won hours together.
It meant risking their diminishing money
and their reputations on one throw of the
dice.

She would have risked much more than
that to give Desi his chance. But there was
one thing, as they went ahead with “I
Love Lucy,” that she hadn’t counted on.

She had not completely realized how
extraordinary Desi really was.

Other people thought of him as only a
glorified bongo-player. Lucy knew his
talent for attending to details, the agility
of his mind in a tight spot, his originality,
his perfectionism when it counted most.

She did not know to what extent her
husband was a living dynamo of thought,
energy, ambition. Desi, behind a camera,
saw what other trained eyes missed, and
set out to correct it mercilessly. Desi, at
a script conference, rejected line after line
at which other people giggled — till he
found the one that made them roar. Desi,
at rehearsal, switched from actor to
director or cameraman with unflagging
energy, taking no breaks, pausing for
nothing, sparing himself for not a moment.
What he didn’t already know, he learned.
What he learned, he mastered.

Those who had laughed at him, now
looked at him with awe.

Lucy’s own admiration increased.

But, of course, all of Desi’s incredible
activity would be wasted unless the star of
the show also met his exacting standards.
The star was Lucy.

She would meet them.

She would not let him down.

Only—

She had never known she could be so
tired.

That there could be so few hours in
a day.

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So little time to rest. Sometimes, no time.

Of course, that couldn’t be helped now.
But later, when everything had really
jelled, then, surely, Desi would relax.
Soon — very soon —

But now —

“You okay for one more run-through,
honey?”

“Of course, Desi. Let’s go.”

The end of a beginning

It had all come true.

All the dreams. All the hopes. All the
risks, schemes, plans had worked.

The world had learned that Desi Arnaz
was someone very special. Someone who
had insane ideas — and made them work.

He had insisted on investing their money
in the insane extravagance of filming their
show, instead of doing it live. All he’d
asked, in return, was the rights to any
profits from later re-runs of those films.
Everyone knew that would come to
nothing.

Now those re-runs are being shown all
over the world.

He had invested thousands, and made
millions.

He had risked catastrophe by plunging
them into debt to buy the studio for which
they had once worked — RKO. Everyone
knew it was foolish to own and rent studios
to other people, when you were getting
along fine being a tenant yourself.

Now TV companies of all sorts were
asking — and paying — for the use of the
Desilu facilities.

He had invested millions, and made
multi-millions.

He had developed new camera tech-
niques for filming his shows.

His directorial skills were famous.

His judgment of audience response was
phenomenal.

His professional opinion was sought by
such old pros as Arthur Godfrey.

It had all come true. Only —

Somehow, they didn’t seem to have
slowed down.

Rehearsals still lasted till late at night.
Lucy still did her scenes over and over,
till they were not merely as good as last
week’s, but better.

And Desi was much too busy to sit back
and enjoy his success.

There were the nights when Lucy went
home, alone, because Desi was busy at the
studio, editing film — or conferring with the
writers — or directing the set construction.

There were the days when he was at
RKO from breakfast till dinner, making
sure that the sound-stages were ready for
other people’s use.

The lunches with sponsors and ad men.

The dinners with people who needed his
advice.

The evenings with business acquaint-
ances.

And, somehow, never just the two of
them alone.

“Desi, let’s call and say we can’t go
tonight. I’ll fix dinner for us and we’ll
just stay home with the kids.”

“Aw, sweetheart, you know we can’ do
that. They’re friends. They’ll be dis-
appointed.”

“They’re business, not friends!”

“You don’ like them? But I thought you
like’ them so much!”

“I do like them. But — I love you. I want
to stay home with you — ”

“I love you too, honey. And tomorrow
night we’ll stay home — jus’ you an’ me.
It will be wonderful, huh? But tonight,
we got to go out — jus’ this once more — ”

“All right. I know. All right.”

They went out.

And when tomorrow night came, there
was an emergency on stage three. The
night after that, rehearsals. Then the

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There so seldom seemed to be time for
“tomorrow night.”

Sometimes it seemed that Desi didn’t
want it to come.

It was as if the success of their work
had liberated some hidden source of energy
in him — something that would not let him
slow down. At the end of a day that would
have sent other men staggering home to
bed, Desi was more alive than he had been
that very same morning. Work, Lucille
told herself, was a stimulant to Desi. The
more he did, the more he was ready to do.
And if there was no work, then that fan-
tastic energy had to be burned up some
other way. If rehearsals had been good,
why not go out and celebrate? If bad,
why not go out and forget it?

“Look. You go without me tonight,
darling. I’ll just spoil your fun by conking
out before you’re ready to come home.
I know I will.”

“No. No. I won’ go without you. I
wouldn’ enjoy it.”

“Sure you will. You know how you’ve
looked forward to this party. But I have a
headache — it’s silly for me to go. I’ll tell
you what. Wake me up when you get
home and tell me all about it.”

“Well. Maybe. Jus’ this once. If you’re
sure it’s okay.”

She began to spend more and more eve-
nings alone at home.

They grew longer and darker every
time.

And then 1959

The phone rang. It rang and rang, shrill
in the silent house. Lucille Ball heard it,
finally, and groped her way to a light
switch. Early morning. Desi had not come
in, yet. If this was another emergency call
from Desilu, what would she say? I’m
sorry, I don’t know where he is, try Las
Vegas, try anywhere but here — he’s so
seldom here!

She picked up the phone.

“Mrs. Arnaz?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am. This
is the police.”

“Desi! Is he all right?”

“He’s not hurt. We picked him up. Too
much to drink — ”

How do you measure heartbreak?

What do you do when a dream comes
true — and turns out to be a nightmare?

It was not the only time Desi’s name
appeared in the papers, after an encounter
with the police.

The “Lucy” shows went on, still popular.

The awards poured in. Money poured in.
Desilu boomed.

At home, night after night, Lucille sat
and wondered where the joy, she should
have felt in these things, had gone.

Out, night after night, Desi tried to
forget that in gaining the world, he had
somehow lost his marriage.

Which of them suffered more, no one
knew.

No one knew much about the situation
at all.

They were such expert comedians, the
Amazes, that it was no great problem to
play one last joke, to say there was noth-
ing wrong, to smile brightly for the
cameras.

But there were slips.

There was Lucy, saying to a reporter, “I
think Desi plans to go to Europe this fall.”

I think — ?

There was Desi, photographed at Las
Vegas for the dozenth time, without Lucy
— caught looking somehow lost and alone,
a little less than happy.

There was the night a friend phoned Lu-
cille and heard her say wistfully, “It
sounds like you have people over there — ”

“I do. Just a few friends. We’re going
to fix dinner.”

“You are? It sounds ... it sounds
wonderful.”

“Lucy — would you like to come over?
We’d love to have you — I had no idea you
weren’t doing anything.”

“Would fifteen minutes be too soon?”
asked Lucille Ball.

She was there in ten. She brought an
apron and helped with the cooking; she
chattered and laughed, and if her eyes
never smiled, at least her lips did. Hours
later, someone said: “For heavens’ sake,
your show is on, Lucy!”

She looked up sharply, the smiles gone.
“Is it? Oh. Well—”

There was an embarrassed pause.
“Would you . . . should we turn it on?”

The pause lengthened. “I . . . yes. Desi
asked me to watch it, so — ”

They put it on. It was a good show.
Everybody laughed a lot. Everybody, ex-
cept Lucille.

At the door, her hostess said goodnight.
“I’m so sorry you missed the first half of
your show.”

Lucille looked at her. “Don’t be. I’m
not. Sometimes — ”

“Sometimes?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I had a very good
time. Thank you.”

And she was gone.

Too many rumors

The joke was almost over.

There were too many rumors now.

Still, sometimes they tried to stop them.

When they heard that they had not
“appeared together in public for almost a
year,” they took the children and went out
to dinner together. The columnists duti-
fully reported that the Arnaz family ate
heartily and smiled a lot.

When Desi, alone in Europe, heard that
he was not expected to go back to Lucille,
he told newsmen it was nonsense; of
course he was going home. The reporters
told their readers that Desi had bought
tons of toys for the children, gallons of
perfume for Lucy.

When Lucy, in Hollywood alone, went to
a premiere with an escort who was not her
husband, photographers stated, firmly, that
he was an old friend of the family, subbing
for Desi.

When word spread that Desilu was up
for sale, Lucy managed one of her famous,
wide-mouthed smiles. “I’m sure it’s not
true. I don’t know much about the busi-
ness end, but I am a vice-president. I
think they’d have to tell me if they were
selling!”

Brave tries, all.

But there were some stories there was
no use denying.

One said that they had been secretly
living apart for a year. True or false? It
only depended on what you meant by
“apart.” Another said that Lucy was going
to do a Broadway show — and that Desi
would not go East with her.

Still another said that the cast and crew
had wept at the last filming of an “I Love
Lucy” show — because they knew that more
than a great television legend was coming
to an end.

The rumors stopped on the day when
Lucy cried out to the reporters:

“I just couldn’t take any more!”

Now, there were facts — not rumors.

The fact that the divorce would be
“amicable,” with the accusation of men-
tal cruelty a legal formality only.

The fact that the children would not be
made victims of a custody battle, but
would be in joint custody of both parents,
with Desi able to see them any time he
wished.

“Lucy and I had a difficult time ex-
plaining our divorce to our children,” Desi
said. “Finally I said: ‘A divorce is like
getting a piece of paper from a judge.’
Little Desi was silent, then came up with:
‘Well, when you get it, can you give the
divorce back?’”

That was a child’s question. Everything
else was a fact.

The fact that Lucy had rented a huge
New York apartment in the hope of a
Broadway hit.

The fact that Desilu was not for sale,
and was still in the talented hands of Desi.

The fact that the marriage was over.

“Why?” the reporter asked again. “What
is it she can’t take any more? They’re still
in love with each other. They’re not even
angry!”

No, they were not angry. How could
you be angry at something that was no-
body’s fault? At a dream-come-true —
gone wrong? At a man who had too much
talent, too much energy? You don’t get
angry at such things.

You don’t even fall out of love.

The only thing that happens is that a
marriage ends.

It happens when, at last, someone can’t
take any more. The End

BE SURE TO CATCH LUCY AND DESI IN THE “i
LOVE LUCY” RERUNS ON YOUR LOCAL STATION.
SEE THE “DESILU PLAYHOUSE” ONCE A MONTH
ON FRIDAYS, FROM 9-10 P.M. EDT, OVER CBS-TV.

Watch TRUE STORY

on your NBC-affiliated television station on Saturdays

See your local paper for time and station. Exciting
stories of actual events and people, straight from the
files of TRUE STORY Magazine — narrated by Kathi
Norris.

And don’t miss “A Wife’s Rights — Divorce Lawyers
Tell Why Wives Are Safer Than They Think” and
“The Lennon Sisters” . . .

In June STORY Magazine

The Woman’s Guide to Better Living
Now at Your Newsstand

Kathi Norris

LANA’S DAUGHTER

Continued from page 48

chance to adjust there,” he explained.

Lana knew only too well what he meant.
He was speaking of her daughter Cheryl
and of a girls’ home she had visited just
the day before. Located deep in the San
Fernando Valley and cut off from society
by high walls and closed gates, it was a
place where teenage girls who are troubled
and need guidance can try to work out
their problems. Even though the teachers
had seemed kind and had promised to look
after Cheryl, she couldn’t help remember-
ing how she had shuddered, just a little,
as she had walked past the high walls.
“Almost prison-like,” she had whispered
to herself and had shuddered again.

Lana broke away from her thoughts,
looked up and across at the probation
officer who had just finished speaking.
Near him was Cheryl, her only daughter.
Cheryl, seemingly so calm, yet not once
looking in her direction. Her white gloved
hands were clasped together on her lap,
she noticed, her feet tucked in neatly —
almost primly — underneath the chair. She
had such an innocent, peaceful look on
her face that it made the whole session
seem ridiculous.

Watching the probation officer as he
talked quietly with the judge and with
another officer of the children’s court,
Lana wondered if he — if any of the seri-
ous-faced, pensive men in that room —
really knew the suffering that surrounded
them.

She looked down, sighing so heavily,
that it sounded like a sigh of failure. The
sigh of a woman who perhaps is just
admitting to herself, for the first time, the
full implications of what has taken place.
For what she had just consented to, was
like saying, I have failed in my duty as a
mother. I need the help of the state. I
no longer know how to control my child;
how to bring her up to be a mature adult.

She twisted around in her seat, her eyes
hardly noticing the now familiar drabness
of the plain wooden chairs and tables in
that conference court room. For she had
been there so many many times in the
past weeks, talking things over, explain-
ing and then explaining again.

But can you really explain what it feels
to be a mother ... a mother who is dis-
traught, a mother who night after night,
turns frantic in her bed? And finally
comes to the only decision she could
make?

She looked back at Cheryl ... it was
so difficult to tell Cheryl — Cheryl who had
given her everything.

She was never alone

“But I’ve never let her be alone,” Lana
said almost to herself. But immediately
after she had said the words, she was
aware of the feeling that somewhere, at
sometime, they’d been said before.

They had. The day they’d all been in
court, in the same court, just two years
ago, fighting off a serious charge against
Cheryl who had stabbed Johnny Stom-
panato, Lana’s current boyfriend, “be-
cause he was going to hurt my mother.”

. . . No. Cheryl had never been left alone.
She had been turned over to grandmother,
or to a nurse or to a governess, or an
exclusive girls’ school, whenever Lana was
working — or getting married, or engaged
with a current romance, or merely living
it up at some pleasure resort. But had
the mere physical presence of someone
to watch over Cheryl been enough to pre-
vent the psychological ravages of loneli-
ness in a young girl’s life?

Lana looked, again, at her daughter, at
the face she knew so very well. “Have I
left her alone, in the one important way
. . . and is this the result?” she questioned.

She could not find the answer, for an-
other greater question was burning in her
mind. She was allowing the state to take
away the daughter who had killed to pro-
tect her. The daughter who so loved her
mother that she had taken up a knife and
stabbed the man who threatened her life.

Will Cheryl ever understand why I am
allowing what is happening today? Per-
haps that was the hardest question of all
to answer.

And, yet, it had been inevitable. . . .

“Cheryl had become unmanageable” —
the words hurt when she first heard them.
“Too much to handle.” What did that
mean? She saw her often — even though
she lived with her grandmother for the
past two years. Yet she’d slip out at
night, after her grandmother had seen her
safely to bed, to go out on a date or to a
friend’s party. Other girls did this, but
Cheryl was different.

As Lana sat in the court, her thoughts
went back to her own teenage years. Be-
cause, in an ironic twist of history, Cheryl
seemed about to take the same drastic
step she herself had taken in her teens.
And one of the severest blows for any
mother is to see her daughter make the
same mistakes she did; a blow so hard
she will do anything to prevent it.

Despite denials, the rumors persisted :
Cheryl and Marty were planning to elope.

“Please Cheryl. Look out. Be careful,”
she’d tried to warn her. “Don’t marry in
haste and foolishness as I did.”

But, as Cheryl had stood before her,
elopement in mind, she could almost see
herself at Cheryl’s age (or was it just a
few months older?), indignant and hurt
over a broken romance to the extent that
she eloped to Las Vegas with Artie Shaw
to begin a marriage that was almost
doomed from the start; a marriage that
was soon to end in divorce and begin her
on the desperate search for real love that
had taken her through four husbands by
the time Cheryl was twelve.

For Lana, real love had been hard to
find. Almost overnight, she had become a
famous movie star, a symbol of love her-
self. But she was so young, at the time,
that the glitter of Hollywood had dazzled
her, blinding her, perhaps, to what was
real and what was not. Most people are
able to lead normal, happy lives in Holly-
wood, but Lana had never seemed to be

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one of these people. Neither had Cheryl.
She'd always said she didn’t like Holly-
wood, that she wanted to leave it. She’d
been happy when her father had promised
that, when she was seventeen, he planned
to take her away from there, to live in
New York.

Lana wanted to warn her daughter that
running away wouldn’t help, that rushing
into a hasty young love wasn’t the answer,
either.

Could Cheryl how, at sixteen, and her
emotions already strained, really under-
stand this plea? Is there ever understand-
ing between a parent and a child?

Cheryl’s romance

The gentle romance of Cheryl and Marty
began about a year ago in quite a natural
way. Cheryl had been invited out for a
drive, one evening, by a group of kids at
her school — Beverly Hills High — and they
had pulled in at a drive-in restaurant on
Wilshire Boulevard where Marty hap-
pened to be the night fountain man.

“I was on a break, at that particular
moment,” Marty had explained to Lana.
“Somehow Cheryl and I got to talking. She
seemed like a wonderful girl — of course,
I didn’t know, then, she was your daugh-
ter— and I asked her for a date. We must
have really started dating about two weeks
later.”

And that had been the start of it all.
From then on, they would see each other
quite often, going to a movie or maybe
just to have a hamburger or a soda . .
always laughing, always having fun.

One day, Cheryl had asked her proudly,
“Would you like to meet Marty?” For, as
Cheryl lived with her grandmother, she
had had no opportunity of meeting him.

She’d said, “I’d love to.”

The first meetings were strained. For
her, meeting Cheryl’s boyfriends was a
new experience but she tried to be friend-
ly. Marty seemed a little awed and Cheryl
somewhat awkward, but finally it seemed
as though Marty was accepted.

“Marty’s a nice boy,” she’d told a friend
afterward. “He came to dinner and I like
him very much. Of course, Cheryl dates
others as well.”

At about this time, the papers were full
of rumors that Lana was about to marry
again. She and Fred May, a businessman,
were seen everywhere together, and her
friends said that Lana was her old self
again, that a new love had helped her to
forget the Stompanato tragedy. Perhaps
Cheryl, seeing the answer her mother had
found, had wanted love for herself, too,
despite her young years.

But, at the time, there was no mention
of such a serious step as elopement or
marriage, something which was to shock
Lana so much, that she was finally to deny,
publicly, that it had ever been put to her.

In fact, she remembered, when she first
found out about it, she was so concerned,
she immediately contacted Cheryl’s fa-
ther, Steve Crane, with the thought of
sending Cheryl to a private school.

“But maybe Cheryl will run away from
a school,” Steve pointed out.

She had done just that when she was
only twelve, her first act of real rebel-
lion. . . .

The spring of ’57

It was the spring of 1957, she remem-
bered. Cheryl had been attending the
Sacred Heart Academy at Flintridge, near
Los Angeles. She had been doing well with
her studies but some of the other girls,
Lana heard later, had been teasing her
about her mother’s marriages. At the
time, Lana was just breaking up with her
fourth husband, Lex Barker, and ugly
rumors were floating around about her
new boyfriends.

And so, by the time Lana came to take
her for a weekend in Palm Springs, Cheryl
had an idea in her head.

As soon as she put Cheryl into a taxi —
she was told the next day — with another
school friend, Maggie Douglas, on their
return to the school early on the Sunday
evening, Cheryl had turned to Maggie
with a glint in her eyes. “I’m not going
back to school, Maggie,” she’d said. “I
don’t like it there.” Then, leaning over
a little further she’d added in a whisper,
“I’m going to run away.”

Sitting up straight, Cheryl had then put
on a sophisticated tone and said to the
driver, “Could you please stop at the
drugstore on the corner. I need some-
thing.”

Four hours later, Cheryl was walking
alone along Los Angeles’ seamy Skid Row
area, a suitcase in hand. It was more or
less fate, she didn’t end up in trouble.
Noticing the attractive young girl wan-
dering jauntily down the street, three
sleazy-looking characters started in pur-
suit. Cheryl, glancing around, saw them
and became frightened and ran to a mo-
torist parked in a nearby car.

“Please help me,” she’d cried frantically
“Those three men are following me.”

She told the driver she had come from
a broken home in Palm Springs, needed a
cheap hotel room for the night and would
start looking for a job in the morning.
Looking closely at Cheryl, and seeing she
couldn’t have been more than thirteen
years old, he’d sensed the story was not
true and drove her to a police station on
the pretense he was taking her to a place
to spend the night. . . .

No, Cheryl couldn’t be trusted in an
ordinary school, Lana thought as she sat
in the courtroom. I guess this is the only
solution.

Would she understand?

Yet, could she commit her own daugh-
ter? The daughter who, in thanks for all
she had done for her, had secretly ar-
ranged a surprise party only last spring?

She would never forget that night. The
night when she’d gone with Cheryl to the
Luau restaurant in Beverly Hills, expect-
ing just to spend her birthday with her
daughter quietly, but instead, had sud-
denly come into the restaurant to find a
dozen voices singing “Happy birthday,”
and Cheryl saying softly, “I wanted to
surprise you. Mother. I wanted to give
you a party.”

Would Cheryl, who seemed to love her
so much, understand that what was hap-
pening was for the best? That she was
not sending her away because she did not
love her any more, or want her, but be-
cause she thought that she needed the
guidance? Would she understand that her
mother knew the wild, impetuous things
she had been doing had really been the
result of shock, the shock of the stabbing,
and not of ill will, and a shock that the
professional guidance at the school could
help soothe?

She stood up, as everyone stood up. For
the session was over. Cheryl, she noticed,
still never looked at her. It hurt. But it
must have hurt Cheryl, too.

Perhaps, one day, she sighed, as she
watched her daughter walk slowly out
through another door, accompanied by the
probation officer, she will understand truly
what is happening; she will really believe
that it was done for her so she might
have a better chance in life; a better
chance for happiness. Perhaps, one day,
when she is grown up and married and
has children of her own, she will under-
stand that it took love, for us to make
this decision. . . .

—BARBARA HARRIS

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